Starvecrow Farm

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXVI

  A RECONCILIATION

  When she had filled her band-box, and with a tearful laugh looked herlast on the cell, she emerged from the yard. She found Captain Clyneawaiting her with his hand on the key of the prison gate. He saw herlook doubtfully at the closed lodge-door; and he misread the look.

  "I thought," he said, "that you would wish to be spared seeing more ofthem. I have," with a faint smile, "authority to open."

  "Oh!" she answered, wrinkling her pretty brow in perplexity. "But Imust see them, please. They have not been unkind to me, and I shouldnot like to go without thanking them."

  And before he could remonstrate, she had pushed open the lodge doorand 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? Andyou've had no use for the pump water?"

  "I wish you hadn't swept out the yard," grudgingly; "'twas no order ofmine, you'll remember. And don't you go and say that I've treated youill!"

  "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 girlto make up for her disappointment. She'll be sorry I'm not going to betransported," 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 dayanother like me, will you be as good to her? And remember that she maynot have done anything wrong after all? Will you promise me?"

  "I will, miss," Mrs. Weighton answered--very graciously for her. "Butthere, it isn't all has your sense! They takes and runs their headsagainst a brick wall! Either they scratches and screams, or they sulksand starves. And then we've to manage them, and we get the blame. Isee you looked white and shivering when you come in, and I thoughtwe'd have trouble with you. But there, you kept yourself in hand, andshowed your sense--it's breeding does it--and you've naught tocomplain of in consequence. Wishing you well and kindly, miss!"

  "I _shall_ come to you for a character!" Henrietta replied with alaugh.

  And she came out quickly and joined Captain Clyne, who, waiting withhis hand on the lock, had heard all. He saw that though she laughedthere was a tear in her eye; and the mingling of gaiety andsensibility in her conduct and her words was not lost upon him. Sheseemed to be bent on putting him in the wrong; on proving to him thatshe was not the silly-pated child he had deemed her! Even the praiseof this jailor's wife, a coarse, cross-grained woman, soundedreproachfully in his ears. She was a better judge, it seemed, than he.

  He put Henrietta into the chaise--the brisk, cold air of the wintermorning was welcome to her; and they set off. Gnawed as he was byunhappy thoughts, wretchedly anxious as he was, he was silent for atime. He knew what he wanted, but he was ashamed to clutch at thatadvantage for the sake of which Sutton had resigned to him themission. 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 hehad eyes for her: he watched her without knowing it. And at the thirdmilestone from Kendal, a little beyond Barnside, he saw her shiver.

  "I am afraid you are cold?" he said, and wondering at the role heplayed, he drew the wraps closer about her--with care, however, thathis fingers should not touch her.

  "No," she answered frankly. "I am not cold. But I remember passingthat mile-stone. I was almost sick with fright when I passed it. Sothat 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 answeredlightly. "And with Mrs. Weighton. Before that I was afraid that theremight be only men."

  He suffered, in the hearing, something of the humiliation which shehad 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 hischild, thoughts which tortured him unceasingly, and became more activeas his return to the Low Wood suggested the possibility of news. Atone 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 insome dark hiding-place with fear for his sole companion. Or again hesaw him beaten and ill-treated, shrieking for the father who had beenalways to him as heaven, omniscient and omnipotent--but shrieking invain. And then the thought that to one so weak and young a littleadded hardship, another day of fear, an insignificant delay, mightprove 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 hiseyes. But when the pace slackened, and the carriage began to crawl upthe long hill beyond Broadgate, a faint sound caught his ear, and heremembered 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! Thepoor boy! The poor boy! Last night--no, it was the night before---Ithought that he called to me. I thought that he was there in the roomwith 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 ofhim! 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. Andthen you threatened me, and I--it seemed unreasonable. For I wanted tohelp you, I did, I did indeed. But I dared not, I dared not give himup! 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, tocajole her to it, if necessary. He had come for that. But the words itbehoved him to use stuck in his throat. And the chaise rolled on, androlled on. And still, but with the sweat standing on his brow, he satsilent, looking out on the barren landscape, as the stone fences slidquickly by, or open moorland took their place. In ten minutes theywould be at the Low Wood. Already through her window she could see thelong stretch of sparkling water, and the wooded isles, and the distantsmoke of Ambleside.

  Their silence was a tragedy. She could save him by a word, and shecould not say the word. She dared not say it. And he--the pleas heshould have used died on his lips. It behoved him to cast himself onher mercy; he was here for that purpose. It behoved him to work on herfeelings, to plead with her, to weep, to pray. And he did not, hecould not. And the minutes passed; the wheels rolled and rolled. Soonthey would be at the end of their journey. He was like a famishing manwho sees a meal within reach, but cannot touch it; or like oneoppressed by a terrible nightmare, who knows that he has but to say aword, and he is freed from the incubus--yet his tongue refuses itsoffice. And now the carriage, having climbed the rise, began to rollmore quickly down the hill. In a very few minutes they would be at theend of their journey.

  Suddenly--"What can we do?" she cried, piteously. "What can we do? Canwe do nothing? Nothing?"

  And neither of the two thought the union of interests strange; anymore than in their absorption they no
ted the strangeness of this drivein company--over some of the very road which she had traversed whenshe eloped with another to avoid a marriage with him.

  He shook his head in dumb misery. Three days of suspense, and as manysleepless nights, the wear and tear of many journeys, had told uponhim. 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 dayin the saddle. He could no longer command the full resources of hismind, and though he still held despair at arm's length, though hestill by force of habit commanded himself, and was stern and reticent,despondency gained ground upon him. It was she who almost at the lastmoment suggested a plan that if not obvious, was simple, and to thepurpose.

  "Listen," she said. "Listen, sir! Why should not I do this? Go myselfto--to him, to Walterson?"

  "You?" he answered, with undisguised repugnance.

  "Yes, I! I! Why not?" she asked. "And learn if he has the child, orknows where it is. Then if he be innocent of this last wickedness, asI believe him to be innocent, we shall learn the fact without harminghim; always supposing that I go to him, undetected. And I can dothat--with your help! That must be your care."

  He pondered.

  "But if," he said slowly, "you do this and he have the child? Whatthen? Have you thought of the consequences to yourself? If he be privyto a crime which none but desperate men could commit, what of you? Hewill be capable of harming you. Or if he scruple, there will beothers, the men who took my child, who will stick at nothing to keeptheir necks out of the noose, and to remove a witness who else mighthang 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 notfor 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 Ican 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 Iwill do, if I am not watched."

  "The rest!" he said with a groan. "But what a rest it is! Why shouldthese 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 havethe same motive for harming me. I mean--they will not harm me with theidea 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 thewindow with his fingers.

  "That may be," he said at length. "Yet I'll not do it! And I'll notlet you do it. Instead, do you tell me where the man is and I will goto 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 thereaction of her spirits. She knew in some subtle way that she wasreinstated; that he would never think very badly of her again. And theknowledge that he trusted her was joy; she scarcely knew why. But, "Ishall not do that!" she repeated. "Have you thought what will be theconsequence to you if he be guilty? They will be three to one, andthey 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 GodI 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, shewas going to prove that she could undertake the matter with safety,when the chaise began to slacken speed, and she cut her reasoningshort. "You will let me do it?" she said, laying her hand on hissleeve.

  "No, no!"

  "You have only to draw them off."

  "I shall not!" he cried, almost savagely. "I shall not! Do you think Iam a villain? Do you think I care nothing what happens----"

  The jerk caused by the chaise coming to a stand before the inn cut hiswords 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 forwardto the chaise door. He answered Clyne, but his eyes, looking beyondhis patron, sought Henrietta's in modest deprecation; much as the dogwhich is not assured of its reception seeks, yet deprecates itsmaster'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 isleswere not thoroughly searched in the first place. But he should be backimmediately."

  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 thehouse, when he remembered himself. He laid his hand on the chaplain'sarm.

  "This is the gentleman," he said, "whom you have to thank for yourrelease, Henrietta."

  "I am sure," she said, "that I am greatly obliged to him." But hertone was cold.

  "He did everything," Clyne said. "He left no stone unturned. Let me dohim the justice of saying that we two must share the blame of what hashappened, 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 resentedhis interference, that she hated to be beholden to him, that she heldhim linked for ever with her humiliation. He, and he alone, had stoodby her two days before, when all had been against her, and CaptainClyne had been as flint to her. He, and he alone, had wrought out herdeliverance and reinstated her. And her thanks were a haughty movementof the head, two sentences as cold as the wintry day, a smile as hardas the icicles that still depended in the shade of the eaves. And whenshe had spoken, she walked to the door without another glance--andevery 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 oneway."

  "That cannot be said of me!" Henrietta retorted, smiling.

  But her colour was high. She remembered how she had descended thosesteps.

  "No?" Mrs. Gilson responded. "When you bring the bad on yourself andthe good is just a gift?"

  "A gift?"

  "Ay! And one for which you're not over grateful!" with all her wontedgrimness. "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 landladyinto the house; and he turned himself about with a full heart andwalked away. He had done so much for her! He had risked hislivelihood, his patron, his position, to save her! He had paced thisstrand with every fibre in him tingling with pity for her! Ay, andwhen all others had put her out of their thoughts! And for return, shewent laughing into the house and paid no heed to him--to the poorparson.

  True, he had expected little. But he had expected more than this. Hehad not hoped for much; or it is possible that he had not resigned theopportunity of bringing her back. But he had hoped for more thanthis--for the tearful thanks of a pair of bright eyes, for the claspof a grateful hand, for a word or two that might remain in his memoryalways.

  And bitterness welled up in his heart, and at the first gate, at whichhe could stand unseen, he let his face fall on his hands. He cursedthe barriers of caste, the cold pride of these aristocrats, even hisown pallid insignificance--since he had as hungry a heart as panted inthe breast of the handsomest dandy. He could not hate her; she wasyoung and thoughtless, and in spite of himself his heart made excusesfor her. But he hated the world, and the system, and the miserableconventions that shackled him; ay, hated the
m as bitterly for the timeas the dark-faced gipsy girl whose eyes he found upon him, when atlast a step caused him to look up.

  She grinned at him slyly, and he gave back the look with resentment.He had met her once or twice in the lanes and about the inn, andmarked her for a rustic beauty of a savage type. Now he waitedfrowning for her to pass. But she only smiled more insolently, andlifting her voice, sang:

  "But still she replied, sir, I pray let me be! If ever I love a man, The master for me!"

  A dull flush overspread his face. "Go your way!" he said.

  "Ay, I'll go!" Bess replied. "And so will she!"

  In pin, out trout! Three's a meal and one's nought!

  "One's nought! One's nought!" she continued to carol.

  And laughing ironically, she went up the road--not without lookingback once or twice to enjoy a surprise which was only exceeded by thechaplain's wrath. What did the girl know? And what was it to her? Acommon gipsy drab such as she, how did she come to guess these things?And where the joint lay at which to aim the keen shafts of her wit?