‘So,’ I thought, ‘poor Meg falls from me!’
Mary Quince and I rambled on through the wood, till we reached the windmill itself, and seeing its low arched door open, we entered the chiaro-oscuro of its circular basement. As we did so I heard a rush and the creak of a plank, and looking up, I saw just a foot — no more — disappearing through the trap-door.
In the case of one we love or fear intensely, what feats of comparative anatomy will not the mind unconsciously perform? Constructing the whole living animal from the turn of an elbow, the curl of a whisker, a segment of a hand. How instantaneous and unerring is the instinct!
‘Oh, Mary, what have I seen!’ I whispered, recovering from the fascination that held my gaze fast to the topmost rounds of the ladder, that disappeared in the darkness above the open door in the loft. ‘Come, Mary — come away.’
At the same instant appeared the swarthy, sullen face of Dickon Hawkes in the shadow of the aperture. Having but one serviceable leg, his descent was slow and awkward, and having got his head to the level of the loft he stopped to touch his hat to me, and to hasp and lock the trap-door.
When this was done, the man again touched his hat, and looked steadily and searchingly at me for a second or so, while he got the key into his pocket.
‘These fellahs stores their flour too long ‘ere, ma’am. There’s a deal o’ trouble a-looking arter it. I’ll talk wi’ Silas, and settle that.’
By this time he had got upon the worn-tiled floor, and touching his hat again, he said —
‘I’m a-goin’ to lock the door, ma’am!’
So with a start, and again whispering —
‘Come, Mary — come away’ —
With my arm fast in hers, we made a swift departure.
‘I feel very faint, Mary,’ said I. ‘Come quickly. There’s nobody following us?’
‘No, Miss, dear. That man with the wooden leg is putting a padlock on the door.’
‘Come very fast,’ I said; and when we had got a little farther, I said, ‘Look again, and see whether anyone is following.’
‘No one, Miss,’ answered Mary, plainly surprised. ‘He’s putting the key in his pocket, and standin’ there a-lookin’ after us.’
‘Oh, Mary, did not you see it?’
‘What, Miss?’ asked Mary, almost stopping.
‘Come on, Mary. Don’t pause. They will observe us,’ I whispered, hurrying her forward.
‘What did you see, Miss?’ repeated Mary.
‘Mr. Dudley,’ I whispered, with a terrified emphasis, not daring to turn my head as I spoke.
‘Lawk, Miss!’ remonstrated honest Quince, with a protracted intonation of wonder and incredulity, which plainly implied a suspicion that I was dreaming.
‘Yes, Mary. When we went into that dreadful room — that dark, round place — I saw his foot on the ladder. His foot, Mary I can’t be mistaken. I won’t be questioned. You’ll find I’m right. He’s here. He never went in that ship at all. A fraud has been practised on me — it is infamous — it is terrible. I’m frightened out of my life. For heaven’s sake, look back again, and tell me what you see.’
‘Nothing, Miss,’ answered Mary, in contagious whispers, ‘but that wooden-legged chap, standin’ hard by the door.’
‘And no one with him?’
‘No one, Miss.’
We got without pursuit through the gate in the paling. I drew breath so soon as we had reached the cover of the thicket near the chestnut hollow, and I began to reflect that whoever the owner of the foot might be — and I was still instinctively certain that it was no other than Dudley — concealment was plainly his object. I need not, then, be at all uneasy lest he should pursue us.
As we walked slowly and in silence along the grassy footpath, I heard a voice calling my name from behind. Mary Quince had not heard it at all, but I was quite certain.
It was repeated twice or thrice, and, looking in considerable doubt and trepidation under the hanging boughs, I saw Beauty, not ten yards away, standing among the underwood.
I remember how white the eyes and teeth of the swarthy girl looked, as with hand uplifted toward her ear, she watched us while, as it seemed, listening for more distant sounds.
Beauty beckoned eagerly to me, advancing, with looks of great fear and anxiety, two or three short steps toward me.
‘She baint to come,’ said Beauty, under her breath, so soon as I had nearly reached her, pointing without raising her hand at Mary Quince.
‘Tell her to sit on the ash-tree stump down yonder, and call ye as loud as she can if she sees any fellah a-comin’ this way, an’ rin ye back to me;’ and she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand.
When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived how pale the girl was.
‘Are you ill, Meg?’ I asked.
‘Never ye mind. Well enough. Listen, Miss; I must tell it all in a crack, an’ if she calls, rin awa’ to her, and le’ me to myself, for if fayther or t’other un wor to kotch me here, I think they’d kill me a’most. Hish!’
She paused a second, looking askance, in the direction where she fancied Mary Quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper —
‘Now, lass, mind ye, ye’ll keep what I say to yourself. You’re not to tell that un nor any other for your life, mind, a word o’ what I’m goin’ to tell ye.’
‘I’ll not say a word. Go on.’
‘Did ye see Dudley?’
‘I think I saw him getting up the ladder.’
‘In the mill? Ha! that’s him. He never went beyond Todcaster. He staid in Feltram after.’
It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established.
CHAPTER LVI
I CONSPIRE
‘That’s a bad un, he is — oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It’s nout that’s good as keeps him an’ fayther — (mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell no one) — as keeps them two a-talkin’ and a-smokin’ secret-like together in the mill. An’ fayther don’t know I found him out. They don’t let me into the town, but Brice tells me, and he knows it’s Dudley; and it’s nout that’s good, but summat very bad. An’ I reckon, Miss, it’s all about you. Be ye frightened, Miss Maud?’
I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.
‘Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven’s sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here?’
‘Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o’clock to nigh one o’ Tuesday night, an’ went in and come out like thieves, ‘feard ye’d see ‘em.’
‘And how does Brice know anything bad?’ I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again — I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.
‘Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin’ and lookin’ awful black, and says he to fayther, “’Tisn’t in my line nohow, an’ I can’t;” and says fayther to he, “No one likes they soart o’ things, but how can ye help it? The old boy’s behind ye wi’ his pitchfork, and ye canna stop.” An’ wi’ that he bethought him o’ Brice, and says he, “What be ye a-doin’ there? Get ye down wi’ the nags to blacksmith, do ye.” An’ oop gits Dudley, pullin’ his hat ower his brows, an’ says he, “I wish I was in the Seamew. I’m good for nout wi’ this thing a-hangin’ ower me.” An’ that’s all as Brice heard. An’ he’s afeard o’ fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if he crossed him, and he and fayther ‘ud think nout o’ havin’ him afore the justices for poachin’, and swearin’ him into gaol.’
‘But why does he think it’s about me?’
‘Hish!’ said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. ‘I can’t say — we’re in danger, lass. I don’t know why — but he does, an’ so do I, an’, for that matter, so do ye.’
‘Meg, I’ll leave Bartram.’
‘Ye can’t.’
‘Can’t. What do you mean, girl?’
‘They won’t let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They’ve dogs — they’ve bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye can’t git o
ot, mind; put that oot o’ your head.
‘I tell ye what ye’ll do. Write a bit o’ a note to the lady yonder at Elverston; an’ though Brice be a wild fellah, and ‘appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an’ I’ll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin’ at mill tomorrow. Coom ye here about one o’clock — that’s if ye see the mill-sails aturnin’ — and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi’ ye. There’s an old French un, though, that talks wi’ Dudley. Mind ye, that un knows nout o’ the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe’er he be wi’ others, and I think he won’t split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an’, for the world’s wealth, don’t ye let one o’ them see ye’ve got ought in your head, not even that un.’
Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.
I can’t at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted — a wonder, almost a terror, to myself.
I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour’s shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.
But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction.
I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was not very well — that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, or our rencontre with Meg Hawkes.
I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary’s tranquil breathing told how soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from the window, expecting to see some of those wolfish dogs which they had brought to the place prowling about the courtyard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquillised, and fancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval of sleep. But the serenity was delusive, and all the time my nerves were strung hysterically. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and on the point of screaming. At length that dreadful night passed away. Morning came, and a less morbid, though hardly a less terrible state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thought struck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite carelessly —
‘Your yesterday’s shopping tempts me, Madame, and I must get a few things before we leave for France. Suppose we go into Feltram to-day, and make my purchases, you and I?’
She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face without answering. I did not blench, and she said —
‘Vary good. I would be vary ‘appy,’ and again she looked oddly at me.
‘Wat hour, my dear Maud? One o’clock? I think that weel de very well, eh?’
I assented, and she grew silent.
I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not know. Through the whole of this awful period I was, I think, supernatural; and I even now look back with wonder upon my strange self-command.
Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited my exit from the place. She would herself conduct me to Feltram, and secure, by accompanying me, my free egress.
Once in Feltram, I would assert my freedom, and manage to reach my dear cousin Knollys. Back to Bartram no power should convey me. My heart swelled and fluttered in the awful suspense of that hour.
Oh, Bartram-Haugh! how came you by those lofty walls? Which of my ancestors had begirt me with an impassable barrier in this horrible strait?
Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Knollys. If I were disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltram, all would depend upon it.
Having locked my door, I wrote as follows: —
‘Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in your hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted somewhere about the grounds. It is a fraud. They all pretend to me that he is gone away in the Seamew; and he or they had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la Rougierre has appeared! She is here, and my uncle insists on making her my close companion. I am at my wits’ ends. I cannot escape — the walls are a prison; and I believe the eyes of my gaolers are always upon me. Dogs are kept for pursuit — yes, dogs! and the gates are locked against my escape. God help me! I don’t know where to look, or whom to trust. I fear my uncle more than all. I think I could bear this better if I knew what their plans are, even the worst. If ever you loved or pitied me, dear cousin, I conjure you, help me in this extremity. Take me away from this. Oh, darling, for God’s sake take me away!
‘Your distracted and terrified cousin,
MAUD’
‘Bartram-Haugh.’
I sealed this letter jealously, as if the inanimate missive would burst its cerements, and proclaim my desperate appeal through all the chambers and passages of silent Bartram.
Old Quince, greatly to cousin Monica’s amusement, persisted in furnishing me with those capacious pockets which belonged to a former generation. I was glad of this old-world eccentricity now, and placed my guilty letter, that, amidst all my hypocrisies, spoke out with terrible frankness, deep in this receptacle, and having hid away the pen and ink, my accomplices, I opened the door, and resumed my careless looks, awaiting Madame’s return.
‘I was to demand to Mr. Ruthyn the permission to go to Feltram, and I think he will allow. He want to speak to you.’
With Madame I entered my uncle’s room. He was reclining on a sofa, his back towards us, and his long white hair, as fine as spun glass, hung over the back of the couch.
‘I was going to ask you, dear Maud, to execute two or three little commissions for me in Feltram.’
My dreadful letter felt lighter in my pocket, and my heart beat violently.
‘But I have just recollected that this is a market-day, and Feltram will be full of doubtful characters and tipsy persons, so we must wait till tomorrow; and Madame says, very kindly, that she will, as she does not so much mind, make any little purchases to-day which cannot conveniently wait.’
Madame assented with a courtesy to Uncle Silas, and a great hollow smile to me.
By this time Uncle Silas had raised himself from his reclining posture, and was sitting, gaunt and white, upon the sofa.
‘News of my prodigal to-day,’ he said, with a peevish smile, drawing the newspaper towards him. ‘The vessel has been spoken again. How many miles away, do you suppose?’
He spoke in a plaintive key, looking at me, with hungry eyes, and a horribly smiling countenance.
‘How far do you suppose Dudley is to-day?’ and he laid the palm of his hand on the paragraph as he spoke. Guess!’
For a moment I fancied this was a theatric preparation to give point to the disclosure of Dudley’s real whereabouts.
‘It was a very long way. Guess!’ he repeated.
So, stammering a little and pale, I performed the required hypocrisy, after which my uncle read aloud for my benefit the line or two in which were recorded the event, and the latitude and longitude of the vessel at the time, of which Madame made a note in her memory, for the purpose of making her usual tracing in poor Milly’s Atlas.
I cannot say how it really was, but I fancied that Uncle Silas was all the time reading my countenance, with a grim and practised scrutiny; but nothing came of it, and we were dismissed.
Madame loved shopping, even for its own sake, but shopping with opportunities of peculation still more. She she had had her luncheon, and was dressed for the excursion, she did precisely what I now most desired — she proposed to take charge of my commissions and my money; a
nd thus entrusted, left me at liberty to keep tryst at the Chestnut Hollow.
So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off, I hurried Mary Quince, and got my things on quickly. We left the house by the side entrance, which I knew my uncle’s windows did not command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enough to make the mill-sails revolve; and as we got further into the grounds, and obtained a distant view of the picturesque old windmill, I felt inexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working.
We were now in the Chestnut Hollow, and I sent Mary Quince to her old point of observation, which commanded a view of the path in the direction of the Windmill Wood, with her former order to call ‘I’ve found it,’ as loudly as she could, in case she should see anyone approaching.
I stopped at the point of our yesterday’s meeting. I peered under the branches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg Hawkes awaiting me.
CHAPTER LVII
THE LETTER
‘Come away, lass,’ whispered Beauty, very pale; ‘he’s here — Tom Brice.’
And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, and we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom or poacher — he might answer for either — with his short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough, with his shoulder against the trunk.
‘Don’t ye mind; sit ye still, lad,’ said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. ‘Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He’ll take it, Miss Maud, if he can; wi’ na ye, lad?’
‘E’es, I’ll take it,’ he replied, holding out his hand.
‘Tom Brice, you won’t deceive me?’
‘Noa, sure,’ said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 256
