A TRAITOR.
Mr. Pennithorne was at the Castle almost all the day during which so
many things occurred. While the children wandered in the wood and young
Lord Stanton went in search of them, the Vicar could not leave the
centre of anxiety. There was no possibility of going upon that quest
till the evening, and good Mr. Pen thought it his bounden duty to stay
with John to “take off his attention,” to distract his mind if possible
from the object of his anxieties. It was all John Musgrave could do, by
way of consideration for an old friend, to put up with these attentions,
but he managed to do so without betraying his impatience, and Mr. Pen
thought he had performed the first duty of friendship. He suggested
everything he could think of that might have happened; most of his
suggestions going to prove that Lilias was in very great peril indeed,
though she might be saved by various ingenious ways. And he took Mary
aside and shook his head, and said he was afraid it was a very bad
business. He believed, good man, that he was of the greatest use to them
both, and congratulated himself on having stayed to discharge this
Christian duty. But Mrs. Pen at the Vicarage got cross and nervous, and
did not think her husband was doing his duty to his home. When a
telegram came in the afternoon, she was not only curious but
frightened--for telegrams she thought were always messages of evil. What
could it tell but harm? Perhaps that her father had been taken ill (Mr.
Pen himself had no family, nor anybody to speak of belonging to him);
perhaps that the investment had gone wrong in which all their little
money was. She tore it open in great agitation, and read as follows:--
“_John Musgrave is in the county and near you. Do you remember what is
your duty as a magistrate, and what is the penalty of not performing
it?_”
Mrs. Pen read this alarming missive two or three times over before she
could understand what it meant. John Musgrave! By degrees it became
clear to her. This was why her husband deserted her, and spent his whole
day at the Castle. He a magistrate, whose first duty it was to send John
Musgrave to prison. The penalty--what was the penalty? The poor woman
was in such a frenzy of agitation and terror that she did not know what
to believe. What could they do to him if it was found out? She went to
the window and looked for him; she went out and walked to the garden
gate; she was not able to keep still. The penalty--what was it? Could
they put him in prison instead of the criminal he allowed to go free?
That seemed the most natural thing, and imagination conjured up before
her the dreadful scene of Mr. Pen’s arrest, perhaps when he was going to
church, perhaps when the house was full of people--everybody
seeing--everybody knowing it. Mrs. Pen saw her husband dragged along the
road in handcuffs before she came to an end of her imaginations. Was
there nothing she could do to save him? She was ready to put herself in
the breach, to say, like a heroine, “Take me, and let him go free?” but
it did not appear to her likely that the myrmidons of the law would pay
any attention to such a touching interposition. Then it occurred to her
to look who it was, a thing she had not noticed at first, who had sent
this kind warning. But this alarmed her more and more. It was some one
who called himself “Friend,” who had taken the trouble from a distant
place in the midland counties to telegraph thus to Mr. Pennithorne. A
friend--it was then an anonymous warning, a very alarming thing indeed
to the vulgar mind. Mrs. Pen worked herself up into a state of intense
nervous agitation. She sent for the gardener that she might send him at
once to the Castle for her husband. But before he came another train of
reflections came across her mind. John Musgrave was her William’s
friend. He was devoted to the family generally, and to this member of it
in particular. Was he not capable of going to prison--of letting himself
be handcuffed and dragged along the public road, and cast into a
dungeon, rather than give up his friend to justice? Oh, what could the
poor woman do? If she could but take some step--do something to save him
before he knew.
All at once there occurred to Mrs. Pen a plan of action which would put
everything right--save William in spite of himself, and without his
knowledge, and put John Musgrave in the hands of justice without any
action of his which could be supposed unfriendly. She herself, Mrs. Pen,
did not even know John, so that if she betrayed him it would be nothing
unkind, nobody could blame her, not Mary Musgrave herself. When the
gardener came, instead of sending him to the Castle for her husband, she
sent him to the village to order the fly in which she occasionally paid
visits; and she put on her best clothes with a quiver of anxiety and
terror in her heart. She put the telegram in her pocket, and drove
away--with a half-satisfaction in her own appearance and half-pride in
bidding the man drive to Elfdale, to Sir Henry Stanton’s, mingling with
the real anxiety in her heart. She was frightened too at what she was
about to do--but nobody could expect from her any consideration for John
Musgrave, whom she had never seen; whereas, to save her husband from the
consequences of his foolish faithfulness, was not that the evident and
first duty of a wife? It was a long drive, and she had many misgivings
as she drove along, with plenty of time to consider and reconsider all
the arguments she had already gone over; but yet when she got to Elfdale
she did not seem to have had any time to think at all. She was hurried
in, before she knew, to Sir Henry Stanton’s presence. He was the nearest
magistrate of any importance, and Mrs. Pen had a slight visiting
acquaintance, of which she was very proud, with Lady Stanton. Had she
repented at the last of her mission, she could always make out to
herself that it was Lady Stanton she had come to visit. But it was Sir
Henry whom she asked for, alarm for her husband at the last moment
getting the better of her fears.
Sir Henry received her with a great deal of surprise. What could the
little country clergyman’s wife want with him? But he was still more
surprised when he heard her errand. John Musgrave at home!--within
reach--daring justice--defying the law! His wife had told him of some
supposed discovery which she at least imagined likely to clear Musgrave,
by bringing in another possible criminal, but that must be some merely
nonsensical theory he had no doubt, such as women and boys are apt to
indulge:--for if anything could be worse than women, Sir Henry felt it
was boys inspired by women, and carrying out their fancies. Therefore he
had paid very little regard to what his wife said. Mrs. Pennithorne had
the advantage of rousing him into excitement. “What! come back!--daring
justice to touch him--insulting the family of the man he had killed, and
the laws of the country!” Sir Henry fumed at the audacity, the evident
absence of all remorse or compunction. “He must be a shameless,
heartless ruffian,” he said; and then he looked at the harmless little
woman who had brought him this news. “It is very public-spirited to
bestir yourself in the matter,” he said. “Have you seen the man, Mrs.
Pennithorne, or how have you come to know?”
“I have not seen him. Sir Henry. I don’t know anything about him,
therefore nobody could say that it was unkind in _me_. How can you have
any feeling for a person you never saw? I got--the news--to-day when my
husband was at the Castle--_he_ did not tell me--he has nothing to do
with it. He is a great friend of the Musgraves, Sir Henry; and I was
told if he knew and did not tell it would bring him into trouble; so I
came to you. I thought it was a wife’s duty. I did not wait till he came
in to show him the telegram, but I came straight on to you.”
“Then you got a telegram?”
“Did I say a telegram?” she said, frightened. “Oh--I did not think what
I was saying. But why should I conceal it? Yes, indeed, Sir Henry, this
afternoon there came a telegram. I have never had a moment’s peace since
then. I thought at first I would send for him and see what he would do,
but then I thought--he thinks so much of the Musgraves--no doubt it
would be a trouble to him to go against them; and so I thought before he
came in I would come to you. I would not do anything without consulting
my husband in any ordinary way, indeed, I assure you, Sir Henry. I am
not a woman of that kind; but in a thing that might have brought him
into such trouble----”
“And is that telegram all you know, Mrs. Pennithorne?”
A horrible dread that he was going to disapprove of her, instead of
commending her, ran through her mind.
“It is all,” she said, faltering; “I have it in my pocket.”
To show the telegram was the last thing in her mind, yet she produced it
now in impetuous self-defence. Having made such a sacrifice as she had
done, acted on her own authority, incurred the expense of the fly,
absented herself from home without anybody’s knowledge (though William
was far too much wrapped up in the Musgraves to be aware of that), it
was more than Mrs. Pennithorne could bear to have her motives thus
unappreciated. She held out the telegram without pausing to think. He
took it, and read it, with a curious look on his face. Sir Henry took a
low view of wives, and of women in general. If she belonged to him how
he would put her down, this meddling woman! but he was glad to learn
what she had to tell, and to be able to act upon it. To approve of your
informant and to use the information obtained are two very different
things.
“This is a threat,” he said; “this is a very curious communication, Mrs.
Pennithorne. Do you know who sent it? Friend! Is it a friend in the
abstract, or does your husband know any one of the name?”
“I don’t know who it is. Oh no, Sir Henry. William knows no one--no one
whom I don’t know! His friends are my friends. My husband is the best of
men. He has not a secret from me. If I may seem to be acting behind his
back it is only to save him, Sir Henry--only for his good.”
“You are acting in the most public-spirited way, Mrs. Pennithorne; but
it is very strange, and I wonder who could have sent it. Do you know any
one at this place?”
“Nobody,” she said, composing herself, yet not quite satisfied either,
for public-spirited was but a poor sort of praise. She was conscious
that she was betraying her husband as well as John Musgrave, and nothing
but distinct applause and assurance that she had saved her William could
have put her conscience quite at ease.
“It is very odd--very odd,” he said; “but I am very much obliged to you
for bringing this information to me, and I shall lose no time in acting
upon it. For a long time, a very long time, this man has evaded the law;
but it will not do to defy it--it never does to defy it. He shall find
that it is more watchful than he thought.”
“And, Sir Henry, of course it is of my husband I must think first. You
will not say he knew? You will not let him get into trouble about it?--a
clergyman, a man whom every one looks up to! You will save him from the
penalty, Sir Henry? Indeed I have no reason to believe he knew at all;
he has never seen this thing. I don’t suppose he knows at all. But he
might be so easily got into trouble! Oh, Sir Henry! you will not let
them bring in William’s name?”
“I shall take care that Mr. Pennithorne is not mentioned at all,” he
said, with a polite bow; but he did not add, “You are a heroic woman and
you have saved your husband,” which was the thing poor Mrs. Pen wanted
to support her. She put back her telegram in her pocket very humbly, and
rose up, feeling herself more a culprit than a heroine, to go away. At
this moment Lady Stanton herself came in hurriedly.
“I heard Mrs. Pennithorne was here,” she said, with a half-apology to
her husband, “and I thought I might come and ask what was the last
news from Penninghame--if there was any change. I am not
interrupting--business?”
“No; you will be interested in the news Mrs. Pennithorne brings me,”
said Sir Henry, with a certain satisfaction. “Mr. Musgrave’s son John,
in whom you have always shown so much interest, Walter Stanton’s
murderer----”
“No, no,” she said, with a shudder, folding her hands instinctively;
“no, no!” The colour went out of her very lips. She was about to hear
that he had died. He must have died on the very day she saw him. She
listened, looking at her husband all pale and awe-stricken, with a gasp
in her throat.
--“Is here,” said Sir Henry, deliberately. “Here, where it was done,
defying the law.”
Mary uttered a great cry of mingled relief and despair.
“Then it was he--it was he--and no ghost!” she cried.
“What! you knew and never told me? I am not so happy in my wife,” said
Sir Henry, with a threatening smile, “as Mr. Pennithorne.”
“Oh, was it he--was it he?--no spirit--but himself? God help him,” cried
Lady Stanton, with sudden tears. “No, I could not have told you, for I
thought it was an apparition. And I would not, Henry,” she added with a
kind of generous passion, “I would not, if I could. How could I betray
an innocent man?”
“Happily Mrs. Pennithorne has saved you the trouble,” he said, getting
up impatiently from his seat. He resented his wife’s silence, but he
scorned the other woman who had brought him the news. “Do not let me
disturb you, ladies, but this is too important for delay. The warrant
must be out to-night. I trust to your honour, or I might arrest you
both,” he said with a sneer--“two fair prisoners--lest you should warn
the man and defeat justice again.”
“Henry, you are not going to arrest him--to _arrest_ him--after what I
told you? I told you that Geoff----”
“Geoff! send Geoff to your nursery, to play with your children, Lady
Stanton,” he cried, in rising wrath, “rather than make a puppet of him
to carry out your own ideas. I have had enough of boys’ nonsense and
women’s. Go to your tea-table, my lady, and leave me to manage my own
concerns.”
Then Lady Stanton--was it not natural?--with a white, self-contained
passion, turned upon the other commonplace woman by her side, who stood
trembling before the angry man, yet siding with him in her heart, as
such women do.
“And is it you that have betrayed him?” she cried; “do you know that
your husband owes everything to him--everything? Oh, it cannot be Mr.
Pen’s doing--he loved them all too well. If it is you, how will you bear
to have his blood on your head? God knows what they may prove against
him, or what they may do to him; but whatever it is, it will be a lie,
and his blood will be on your head. Oh, how could you, a woman, betray
an innocent man?”
Lady Stanton’s passion, Sir Henry’s lowering countenance, the sudden
atmosphere of tragedy in which she found herself, were too much for
poor Mrs. Pen. She burst into hysterical crying, and dropped down upon
the floor between these two excited people. Perhaps it was as good a way
as any other of extricating herself out of the most difficult position
in which a poor little, well-intentioned clergywoman had ever been.