Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Bess Hinkson? What a horrid name!” Henrietta muttered as she watched her cross the road. She did not dream that she would ever see the girl again: the more as the men’s voices — she was nearly ready to descend — fixed her attention next. She caught a word, then listened.

  “The devil’s in it if he’s not gone Whitehaven way!” one said. “That’s how he’s gone! Through Carlisle, say you? Not he!”

  “But without a horse? He’d no horse.”

  “And what if he’d not?” the first speaker retorted, with the impatience of superior intellect. “It’s Tuesday, the day of the Man packet-boat, and he’d be away in her.”

  “But the packet don’t leave Whitehaven till noon,” a third struck in. “And they’ll be there and nab him before that. S’help me, he has not gone Whitehaven way!”

  “Maybe he’d take a boat?”

  “He’d lack the time” — with scorn.

  “He’s took a boat here,” another maintained. “That’s what he has done. He’s took a boat here and gone down in the dark to Newby Bridge.”

  “But there’s not a boat gone!” another speaker retorted in triumph. “What do you say to that?”

  So far Henrietta’s ear followed the argument; but her mind lagged at the point where the matter touched her.

  “The Man packet-boat?” she thought, as she tied the last ribbon at her neck and looked sideways at her appearance in the squat, filmy mirror. “That must be the boat to the Isle of Man. It leaves Whitehaven the same day as the Scotch boat, then. Perhaps there is but one, and it goes on to the Isle of Man. And I shall go by it. And then — and then — —”

  A knock at the door severed the thread, and drove the unwonted languor from her eyes. She cast a last look at her reflection in the glass, and turned herself about that she might review her back-hair. Then she swept the table with her eye, and began to stuff this and that into her bandbox. The knock was repeated.

  “I am coming,” she cried. She cast one very last look round the room, and, certain that she had left nothing, took up her bonnet and a shawl which she had used for a wrap over her riding-dress. She crossed the room towards the door. As she raised her hand to the latch, a smile lurked in the dimples of her cheeks. There was a gleam of fun in her eyes; the lighter side of her was uppermost again.

  It was not her lover, however, who stood waiting outside, but Modest Ann — she went commonly by that name — the waiting-maid of the inn, who was said to mould herself on her mistress and to be only a trifle less formidable when roused. The two were something alike, for the maid was buxom and florid; and fame told of battles between them whence no ordinary woman, no ordinary tongue, no mortal save Mrs. Gilson, could have issued victorious. Fame had it also that Modest Ann remained after her defeat only by reason of an attachment, held by most to be hopeless, to the head ostler. And for certain, severe as she was, she permitted some liberty of speech on the subject.

  Henrietta, however, did not know that here was another slave of love; and her face fell.

  “Is Mr. Stewart waiting?” she asked.

  “No, miss,” the woman answered, civilly enough, but staring as if she could never see enough of her. “But Mrs. Gilson will be glad if you’ll speak to her.”

  Henrietta raised her eyebrows. It was on the tip of her tongue to answer, “Then let her come to me!” But she remembered that these people did not know who she was — knew indeed nothing of her. And she answered instead: “I will come. Where is she?”

  “This way, miss. I’ll show you the way.”

  Henrietta wondered, as the woman conducted her along several low-ceiled passages, and up and down odd stairs, and past windows which disclosed the hill rising immediately at the back of the house, what the landlady wanted.

  “She is an odious woman!” she thought, with impatience. “How horrid she was to me last night! If ever there was a bully, she is one! And this creature looks not much better!”

  Modest Ann, turning her head at the moment, belied the ill opinion by pointing out a step in a dark corner.

  “There is a stair here, miss,” she said. “Take care.”

  “Thank you,” Henrietta answered in her clear, girlish voice. “Is Mr. Stewart with Mrs. —— What’s her name?”

  “Mrs. Gilson? No, miss.”

  And pausing, the woman opened a door, and made way for Henrietta to enter.

  At that instant — and strange to say, not before — a dreadful suspicion leapt up in the girl’s brain. What if her brother had followed her, and was there? Or worse still, Captain Clyne? What if she were summoned to be confronted with them and to be taken home in shameful durance, after the fashion of a naughty child that had behaved badly and was in disgrace? The fire sprang to her eyes, her cheeks burnt. It was too late to retreat; but her pretty head went up in the air, and her look as she entered spoke flat rebellion. She swept the room with a glance of flame.

  However, there was no one to be burned up: no brother, no slighted, abandoned suitor. In the room, a good-sized, pleasant room, looking on the lake, were only Mrs. Gilson, who stood beside the table, which was laid for breakfast, and a strange man. The man was gazing from the window, but he turned abruptly, disclosing a red waistcoat, as her eye fell on him. She looked from one to the other in great surprise, in growing surprise. What did the man there?

  “Where is Mr. Stewart?” she asked, her frigid tone expressing her feelings. “Is he not here?”

  Mrs. Gilson seemed about to answer, but the man forestalled her.

  “No, miss,” he said, “he is not.”

  “Where is he?”

  She asked the question with undisguised sharpness.

  Mr. Bishop nodded like a man well pleased.

  “That is the point, miss,” he answered— “precisely. Where is he?”

  CHAPTER IV

  TWO TO ONE

  Henrietta, high-spirited and thoughtless, was more prone to anger than to fear, to resentment than to patience. But all find something formidable in the unknown; and the presence of this man who spoke with so much aplomb, and referred to her lover as if he had some concern in him, was enough to inspire her with fear and set her on her guard. Nevertheless, she could not quite check the first impulse to resentment; the man’s very presence was a liberty, and her tone when she spoke betrayed her sense of this.

  “I have no doubt,” she said, “that Mr. Stewart can be found if you wish to see him.” She turned to Mrs. Gilson. “Be good enough,” she said, “to send some one in search of him.”

  “I have done that already,” the man Bishop answered.

  The landlady, who did not move, seemed tongue-tied. But she did not take her eyes off the girl.

  Henrietta frowned. She threw her bonnet and shawl on a side-table.

  “Be good enough to send again, then,” she said, turning and speaking in the indifferent tone of one who was wont to have her orders obeyed. “He is probably within call. The chaise is ordered for ten.”

  Bishop advanced a step and tapped the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other.

  “That is the point, miss!” he said impressively. “You’ve hit it. The chaise is ordered for ten. It is nine now, within a minute — and the gentleman cannot be found.”

  “Cannot be found?” she echoed, in astonishment at his familiarity. “Cannot be found?” She turned imperiously to Mrs. Gilson. “What does this person mean?” she said. And her tone was brave. But the colour came and went in her cheeks, and the first flutter of alarm darkened her eyes.

  The landlady found her voice.

  “He means,” she said bluntly, “that he did not sleep in his bed last night.”

  “Mr. Stewart?”

  “The gentleman who came with you.”

  “Oh, but,” Henrietta cried, “you must be jesting?” She would not, she could not, give way to the doubt that assailed her.

  “It is no jest,” Bishop answered gravely, and with something like pity in his voice. For the girl looked very fair and very you
ng, and wore her dignity prettily. “It is no jest, miss, believe me. But perhaps we could read the riddle — we should know more, at any rate — if you were to tell us from what part you came yesterday.”

  But she had her wits about her, and she was not going to tell them that! No, no! Moreover, on the instant she had a thought — that this was no jest, but a trick, a cruel, cowardly trick, to draw from her the knowledge which they wanted, and which she must not give! Beyond doubt that was it; she snatched thankfully at the notion. This odious woman, taking advantage of Stewart’s momentary absence, had called in the man, and thought to bully her, a young girl in a strange place, out of the information which she had wished to get the night before.

  The impertinents! But she would be a match for them.

  “That is my affair,” she said.

  “But — —”

  “And will remain so!” she continued warmly. “For the rest, I am inclined to think that this is a trap of some sort! If so, you may be sure that Mr. Stewart will know how to resent it, and any impertinence offered to me. You” — she turned suddenly upon Mrs. Gilson— “you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

  Mrs. Gilson nodded oracularly.

  “I am ashamed of somebody,” she said.

  The girl thought that she was gaining the advantage.

  “Then at once,” she said, “let Mr. Stewart know that I am waiting for him. Do you hear, madam?” she stamped the floor with her foot, and looked the pretty fury to the life. “And see that this person leaves the room. Good-morning, sir. You will hear from Mr. Stewart what I think of your intrusion.”

  Bishop opened his mouth to reply. But he caught Mrs. Gilson’s eye; and by a look, such a look as appalled even the Bow Street runner’s stout heart, she indicated the door. After a second of hesitation he passed out meekly.

  When he was gone, “Very good, miss,” the landlady said in the tone of one who restrained her temper with difficulty— “very good. But if you’re to be ready you’d best eat your breakfast — if, that is, it is good enough for you!” she added. And with a very grim face she swept from the room and left Henrietta in possession of the field.

  The girl sprang to the window and looked up and down the road. She had the same view of the mild autumn morning, of the grey lake and distant range of hills which had calmed her thoughts an hour earlier. But the beauty of the scene availed nothing now. She was flushed with vexation — impatient, resentful. Where was he? He was not in sight. Then where could he be? And why did he leave her? Did he think that he need no longer press his suit, that the need for pettis soins and attentions was over? Oh, but she would show him! And in a moment all the feelings of the petted, spoiled girl were up in arms.

  “They are horrid!” she cried, angry tears in her eyes. “It’s an outrage — a perfect outrage! And he is no better. How dare he leave me, this morning of all mornings?”

  On which there might have stolen into her mind — so monstrous did his neglect seem — a doubt, a suspicion; the doubt and the suspicion which she repelled a few minutes earlier. But, as she turned, her eyes fell on the breakfast-table; and vexation was not proof against a healthy appetite.

  “I will show him,” she thought resentfully, “that I am not so dependent on him as he thinks. I shall not wait — I shall take my breakfast. That odious woman was right for once.”

  And she sat down in the seat placed for her. But as quickly she was up again, and at the oval glass over the mantel — where Samuel Rogers had often viewed his cadaverous face — to inspect herself and be sure that she was looking her best, so that his despair, when he came and found her cold and distant, would be the deeper. Soon satisfied, she returned, smiling dangerously, to her seat; and this time she fell-to upon the eggs and girdle-cakes, and the home-cured ham, and the tea at ten shillings a pound. The room had a window to the lake and a second window which looked to the south and was not far from the first. Though low-ceiled, it was of a fair size, with a sunk cupboard, with glazed upper doors, on each side of the fireplace, and cushioned seats in the window-places. In a recess near the door — the room was full of corners — were book-shelves; and on the other side of the door stood a tall clock with a very pale face. The furniture was covered with some warm red stuff, well worn; and an air of that snug comfort which was valued by Englishmen of the day pervaded all, and went well with the scent of the China tea.

  But neither tea nor comfort, nor the cheerful blaze on the hearth, could long hold Henrietta’s thoughts; nor resentment repress her anxiety. Presently she began to listen after every mouthful: her fork was as often suspended as at work. Her pretty face grew troubled and her brow more deeply puckered, until her wandering eye fell on the clock, and she saw that the slowly jerking hand was on the verge of the half-hour.

  Then she sprang up, honestly frightened. She flew to the window that looked on the lake and peered out anxiously; thence to the side window, but she got no glimpse of him. She came back distracted to the table and stood pressing her hands to her eyes. What if they were right, and he had not slept in his bed? What if something had happened to him? But that was impossible! Impossible! Things did not happen on such mornings as this! On wedding mornings! Yet if that were the case, and they had sent for her that they might break it to her — and then their hearts, even that woman’s heart, had failed them? What — what then?

  She was trying to repel the thought when she fancied that she heard a sound at the door, and with a gasp of relief she looked up. If he had entered at that moment, she would have flung herself into his arms and forgiven all and forgotten all. But he did not enter, and her heart sank again, and lower. She went slowly to the door and listened, and found that the sound which she had heard was caused by the whispering of persons outside.

  She summoned her pride to her aid then. She opened the door to its full extent and walked back to the table, and turning, waited haughtily for them to enter. But to speak, to command her voice, was harder, and it was all she could do to murmur,

  “Something has happened to him” — her lip fluttered ominously— “and you have come to tell me?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” Bishop answered cheerfully. He and the landlady had walked in and closed the door behind them. “Nothing at all.”

  “No?” She could hardly believe him.

  “Not the least thing in life, miss,” he repeated. “He’s alive and well for what I know — alive and well!”

  She sat down on a chair that stood beside her, and the colour flowed back to her cheeks. She laughed weakly.

  “I was afraid that something had happened,” she murmured.

  “No,” Mr. Bishop answered, more seriously, “it’s not that. It’s not that, miss. But all the same it’s trouble. Now if you were to tell me,” he continued, leaning forward persuasively, “where you come from, I need have hardly a word with you. I can see you’re a lady; your friends will come; and, s’help me, in six months you’ll have your matie again, and not know it happened!

  “I shall not tell you,” she said.

  The officer shook his head, surprised by her firmness.

  “Come now, miss — be advised,” he urged. “Be reasonable. Just think for once that others may know better than you, and save me the trouble — that’s a good young lady.”

  But the wheedling appeal, the familiar tone, grated on her. Her fingers, tapping on the table, betrayed impatience as well as alarm.

  “I do not understand you,” she said, with some return of her former distance. “If nothing has happened to Mr. Stewart, I do not understand what you can have to say to me, nor why you are here.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, miss,” he said, “if you must have it, you must. I’m bound to say you are not a young lady to take a hint.”

  That frightened her.

  “If nothing has happened to him — —” she murmured, and looked from one to the other; from Mr. Bishop’s smug face to the landlady’s stolid visage.

  “It’s not what
has happened to him,” the runner answered bluntly. “It is what is likely to happen to him.”

  He drew from his pocket as he spoke a large leather case, unstrapped it, and put the strap, which would have handily spliced a cart-trace of these days, between his teeth. Then he carefully selected from the mass of papers which the case contained a single letter. It was written, as the letters of that day were written, on three sides of a square sheet of coarsish paper. The fourth side served for envelope — that is, it bore the address and seal. But Bishop was careful to fold the letter in such a way that these and the greater part of the writing were hidden. He proffered the paper, so arranged, to Henrietta.

  “D’you know the handwriting,” he asked, “of that letter, miss?”

  She had watched his actions with fascinated eyes, and could not think, could not imagine, whither they tended. She was really frightened now. But her mettle was high; she had the nerves of youth, and she hid her dismay. The hand with which she took the letter was steady as a rock, the manner with which she looked at it composed; but no sooner had her eyes fallen on the writing than she uttered an exclamation, and the colour rose to her cheeks.

  “How did you get this?” she cried.

  “No, miss, no,” the runner answered. “One at a time. The question is, Do you know the fist? The handwriting, I mean. But I see you do.”

  “It is Mr. Stewart’s,” she answered.

  He glanced at Mrs. Gilson as if to bespeak her attention.

  “Just so,” he said. “It is Mr. Stewart’s. And I warrant you have others like it, and could prove the fact if it were needed. No — don’t read it, miss, if you please,” he continued. “You can tell me without that whether the gentleman has any friends in these parts.”

  “None.”

  “That you know of?”

  “I never heard of any,” she answered. Her astonishment was so great that she did not now think of refusing to answer. And besides, here was his handwriting. And why did he not come? The clock was on the point of striking; at this hour, at this minute, they should have been leaving the door of the inn.