SANCTUARY.
With his heart in his mouth Bram waited. Would she come out to him? She
stood up, with the firelight shining on her figure, but leaving her
face in shadow, so that he could not tell what expression she wore.
He wondered whether she knew him. After waiting for a few moments he
tapped again at the window, advancing his face as close as possible to
the glass. Then, as she still did not move, he stepped back, and was
going towards the door, when by a quick gesture she checked him, and
seemed to intimate that he was to wait for her to come out to him.
At the same moment she left the room.
Bram waited.
When some minutes had passed, and still she did not come out, he began
to feel alarmed, to wonder whether she had given him the slip. He
walked round to the back, and saw that the cottage, which was one of a
row of three, had a good garden behind it, and that there was a path
which led from the garden across the fields.
Presently he went round to the front again, and knocked at the door. It
was opened after the second knock, by a very respectable-looking old
woman, with a kindly, pleasant face.
“Is Miss Biron staying here?” asked Bram, wondering whether Claire was
using her own name or passing under another.
But the answer put to flight any doubts.
“Yes, sir,” said the woman at once. “She is staying here, but she isn’t
in at present. She’s just this minute gone out.”
Bram felt his blood run cold. Claire was avoiding him then! The woman
seemed to know of no reason for this sudden disappearance, and went on
to ask--
“You are a friend of hers, sir?”
“Oh, yes, a very old friend of hers and her father’s.”
“And do you come from her father, sir?”
“Yes, I saw him this morning.”
“Ah,” cried she sharply. “And I hope he’s ashamed of himself by this
time for turning his daughter, his own daughter, out of his house!”
Bram said nothing. He did not know how much this woman knew, nor who
she was, nor anything about her.
“I suppose he wants her back again?” she went on in the same tone.
“He does indeed. He’s very ill. He has erysipelas all over his face
and one of his hands, and is even in danger of his life. It has led to
serious inflammation internally. He wants a great deal of care, such
care as only his daughter can give him.”
“Dear me! Dear me! Well, we must hope it’ll soften his hard heart!”
said the woman, coming out a step to listen. “He was always a
light-minded, careless sort of a man. But I never thought he’d turn
out so bad as he has done--never. He was a taking sort of a gentleman
in the old days when he came courting Miss Clara, and married her and
carried her off.”
A light broke in upon Bram. This was some old servant of the family
of Claire’s mother, who had lived out her years of service, settled
down, and “found religion” within sight of the old house, within the
walls of which her girlhood had been passed. He had seen from the
outside, as he looked in through the window at Claire, the framed texts
of Scripture which hung on the walls, the harmonium in the corner,
with a large hymn-book open upon it--the usual interior of the English
self-respecting cottager.
“You lived in the family,” said Bram, “did you not?”
“Why, yes, sir. I was under housemaid, and right through
upper-housemaid to housekeeper with them in the old gentleman’s and
lady’s time. Mr. Biron’s told you about me, no doubt, sir,” she added,
with complacent belief that she was still fresh in that gentleman’s
mind. “And I don’t suppose he had many a good word for me. I never did
like the idea of his being half-French. I was always afraid it would
turn out badly, always. I suppose he thought of me at once when he
wanted his daughter back, sir?”
Bram thought this suggestion would do very well as an explanation of
his own appearance at the cottage, so he did not contradict her. He
asked if she knew where Claire had gone to.
“Well, no, sir, I don’t. She ran upstairs, and put on her things all in
a hurry, and went out at the back. I suppose she remembered something
she’d forgotten this morning when she went out to do my little bit
of marketing for me. And yet--no--she’d have gone out the front
way for that.” The old woman stared at the young man with wakening
intelligence. She perceived some signs of agitation in him. “Maybe she
saw you through the window, sir, and didn’t want to speak to you,” she
suggested shrewdly.
Bram did not contradict her.
“Where does the path at the back lead to?” he asked, “I must see her. I
think it’s very likely, as you say, that she doesn’t want to; but she
would never forgive herself if her father were to die, would she?”
“Lord, no, sir. Well, she may have gone out that way and then turned
to the left back into the town. Or she may--though I don’t think it’s
likely--she may have gone on towards Little Scrutton. She’s fond of
a walk to the old abbey, that runs down to the left past Sir Joseph’s
plantation. But I should hardly think she’d go that far so late, and by
herself too!”
“Thanks. Well, if she’s gone that way I can catch her up, or meet her
as she comes back,” said Bram. “Thank you. Good-evening.”
He hid as well as he could the anxiety which was in his heart, and set
off, passing, by the woman’s invitation, through the cottage kitchen,
by the footpath across the fields.
He was half-mad with fear lest Claire, in an access of shame, should
have fled from the shelter she had found under the good woman’s roof,
determined not to return to a hiding-place which had been discovered.
It seemed clear to him that the old woman knew nothing but the fact
that Theodore had sent his daughter away, and for one brief, splendid
moment Bram asked himself whether that were indeed the whole truth, and
the story of her flight with Christian an ugly nightmare, dishonoring
only to the brains which had conceived it.
But then, like a black pall, there descended on his passionate hopes
the remembrance of Claire’s look when he last saw her at the farm; of
the horror, the shame in her face; of her abrupt flight then; or her
flight now. What other explanation could there be of all this? Was he
not mad to entertain a hope in the face of overwhelming evidence?
But for all this he did hug to his heart a ray of comfort, of hope, as
he reached the high-road, and quickly making up his mind to try the
way into the country instead of that which led into the town started
along between the bare hedges in the darkness with a quick step and an
anxious heart.
The road was easy to follow, lying as it did, between hedges all the
way. The plantation of which the old woman had spoken was some two
miles out. Then Bram found a road dipping sharply down to the left, as
she had said; and, after a few moments’ hesitation, he turned into it.
For some distance he went down the steep hill in the shadow of the fir
trees of the plantation. At the bottom he came to a little group of
scattered cottages, and following the now winding road he came suddenly
upon a sight that made him pause.
The moon, clear, frosty, nearly at the full, shone down on a wide
valley, shut in with gentle, well-wooded slopes, a very garden of
peace and beauty. Close under the nearest hill stood the ruined abbey,
perhaps even more imposing in its majestic decay than it had been
in the old days when a roof hid its lofty arches and tall clustered
pillars from the gaze of the profane.
Coming upon it suddenly, Bram was struck by its massive beauty, its
solitary grandeur. The walls, far out of the reach of the smoke of
the town, were still of a glaring whiteness; the moon shone through
the pointed clerestory windows, and cast long, black shadows upon the
grass, and the broken white stones which lay strewn about within the
walls. Here and there a mass of ivy, sturdy, thick, and bushy, broke
the hard outline of tall white wall; or a clump of hawthorn, now bare,
half-hid the small, round-headed tower windows of the transepts.
Bram went forward slowly, fascinated by the sight, and seized strongly
by the conviction that little Claire would have found the stately
old walls as magnetic in their attraction as he did. He came to the
fence which surrounded the ruin, and climbed over it without troubling
himself to look for a gate.
The ground was rough and uneven, encumbered with loose stones. He
wandered about the transepts and the long choir, which were all that
were left of the church itself, hunting in every corner and in the
deep shadow of every bush. But he found no trace of Claire. Yet still
he was haunted by the thought that it was here, within walls which had
once been held holy, that the little fugitive would have taken shelter,
would have hidden from him. So strongly did this idea possess him that
he at last sat down on a stone in the ruined choir, determined to keep
vigil there all night, and to make a further search when morning broke.
It was a cold night, and sleep in the circumstances was out of
the question. He walked up and down and sat down to rest upon the
flat stone alternately until dawn came. A long, weary night it was
undoubtedly. Yet through it all he never lost for more than a few
moments at a time the feeling that Claire was near at hand, that when
daylight came he should find her.
The dwellers in the cottages outside the ruin were early astir, and one
or two perceived Bram, and came up to the railings to look at him. But
as none of them seemed to feel that his intrusion was any business of
theirs he was left alone until the light was strong enough for him to
renew his search. Then, not within the walls of the church itself, but
in the refectory, which was choked up and encumbered with broken stones
and rubbish which had made search difficult in the night, he found her.
There was a little stone gallery, with a broken stone staircase leading
up to it, at one end of the refectory. And here crouched in a corner,
fast asleep, with her head against the stone wall, was Claire. Her
small face looked pinched and gray with the cold. He took off his
overcoat and covered her with it very gently. But soft as his touch was
she awoke, stared at him for a moment as if she scarcely knew him, and
then sprang to her feet.
She was so stiff and cramped and chilled that she staggered. Bram
caught her arm, but she wrenched herself away with a sound like a sob,
and in her eyes there came a fear, a shame so deep, so terrible, that
Bram looked away from her, unable to meet it with his own mournful eyes.
“Why did you run away from me?” asked he, so kindly, with such a brave
affectation of rough cheerfulness that the tears came rushing into the
girl’s eyes. “You might have known I didn’t want to do you any harm,
mightn’t you? I only wish I’d brought you some better news than I do.”
[Illustration: He took off his overcoat and covered her with it very
gently.--_Page 156._]
He was looking away, through the tall, pointed arches, at the leafless
trees beyond. He heard her draw a long breath. Then she asked, in a
very low voice:--
“What news, then?”
“Your father wants you back. He’s very ill--very ill. He’s had an
accident, and burnt his head and one of his hands badly. You’ve got to
come back and nurse him; he doesn’t mind what anybody says, and he does
foolish and rash things that only you can save him from. You’ll come
back, won’t you?”
There was a pause. Bram looked at her, and she bowed her head in silent
assent. She would not meet his eyes; she hung her head, and he saw that
she was crying.
“We’d better make haste and get back to Chelmsley,” said he in a robust
voice. “I forgot to look out a train; or rather I had hoped to have
taken you back last night. But you gave me the slip; I can’t think why.
You’ve got nothing but a cold night and perhaps a bad cough by your
freak.”
Claire said nothing. She seemed to be petrified with shame, and
scarcely to feel the cold without from the suffering within. It was
pitiful to see her. Bram, long as he had thought over the poor child
and her desolate situation, suffered new agonies on finding how
deep her anguish was. A sense of unspeakable degradation seemed to
possess her, to make every glance of her eyes furtive, every movement
constrained.
“I will come,” she said humbly, in a voice which was hoarse from
exposure.
“Of course you will come,” retorted Bram good-humoredly. “And put your
best foot foremost too, for----”
She interrupted him hastily, coldly.
“But let me go alone, please. Thank you for coming; it was very good
of you. But I want to go alone. And I want you not to come to see us
at the farm. If you do----” Her voice grew stronger as Bram tried to
protest, and suddenly she raised her head, and looked at him with a
flash of excitement in her eyes. “If you do, I shall kill myself!”
“Very well,” said Bram quietly. “Good-bye, then.”
He jumped the stone steps, offering the assistance of his hand, which
she declined. And he crossed the rough ground quickly, and went through
the roofless church on his way back to Chelmsley.
Perhaps Claire’s heart smote her for her ungraciousness. At any rate,
when he glanced back, after climbing over the fence, he saw that she
must have followed him very quickly, for she was only a few yards away.
There was a look in her eyes, now that she was caught unawares, which
was like a stab to his tender heart.
He stopped. She stopped also, and made a movement as if to turn back to
run away. He checked her by an imploring gesture.
“You will come, really come; you’ve promised, haven’t you?” said he.
She bowed her head. He dared not hazard another word. So, without so
much as another glance from her, he went quickly up the hill on his
return to Chelmsley.
What a meeting it had been, after so much anxious waiting! Nothing
had been said that might not have been said any day by one casual
acquaintance to another. And yet their hearts were nigh to bursting all
the time.
Bram went straight to the station, hungry as he was. He thought Claire
would tell the old woman a better story than he could make to account
for her absence all night. And he thought that the sooner he was out of
the place the sooner Claire would follow him back to Hessel. Within an
hour and a half he was in the train, returning to Sheffield. He sent
a message up to the farm on his arrival to prepare Theodore for his
daughter’s return, and then he set his mind to his office work for the
remainder of the day.
When he returned to Hessel that evening he ventured to tap at the
kitchen window of the farm. Joan came out to him. Yes, Miss Claire had
come, the good woman said, wiping her eyes. And she hoped things might
go right. But Meg Tyzack had been hanging about the place, and Joan was
keeping all the doors locked.
“Ah’m in a terrible way abaht that woman,” said Joan in a deep whisper.
“Ah haven’t towd her Miss Claire’s coom back, and Ah hope nobody else
will. For Ah don’t think she’s altogether in her roight moind, and Ah
wouldn’t have her in t’ house again for summat!”
This was grave news. Bram, feeling that there was nothing he could do
for the protection of the threatened household, stared out before him
with trouble in his eyes.
“What did Mr. Biron say when he saw his daughter?” asked he.
Joan pursed up her lips.
“He didn’t dare say mooch,” said she, with a comprehensive nod.
“He didn’t even say how he’d coom by t’ burns! It was me towd Miss
Claire abaht Meg! And she heard me quite solemn, and didn’t ask many
questions. And when Ah towd her abaht Mr. Christian’s having t’ fever
she joost shivered, and said naught.”
Bram shivered too, and hurried away up the hill to his lodging.