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 young, 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.
“No, miss,” Bishop answered, exchanging a look with the landlady. “Just
so, you’ve never heard of any. Then one more question, if you please.
You are going north, to Scotland, to be married to-day? Now which way,
I wonder?”
She frowned at him in silence. She began to see his drift.
“By Keswick and Carlisle?” he continued, watching her face. “Or by
Kendal and Penrith? Or by Cockermouth and Whitehaven? But no. There’s
only the Isle of Man packet out of Whitehaven.”
“It goes on to Dumfries,” she said. The words escaped her in spite of
herself.
He smiled as he shook his head.
“No,” he said; “it’d be a very long way round if it did. But Mr.
Stewart told you that, did he? I see he did. Well, you’ve had an
escape, miss. That’s all I can say.”
The colour rose to her very brow, but her eyes met his boldly.
“How?” she said. “What do you mean?”
“How?” he repeated. “If you knew, miss, who the man was—your Mr.
Stewart—you’d know how—and what you have escaped!”
“Who he was?” she muttered.
“Ay, who he was!” he retorted. “I can tell you this at least, young
lady,” he added bluntly, “he’s the man that’s very badly
wanted—uncommonly badly wanted!”—with a grin—“in more places than one,
but nowhere more than where he came from.”
“Wanted?” she said, the colour fading in her cheek. “For what? What do
you mean?”
“For what?”
“That is what I asked.”
His face was a picture of importance and solemnity. He looked at the
landlady as much as to say, “See how I will prostrate her!” But nothing
indicated his sense of the avowal he was going to make so much as the
fact that instead of raising his voice he lowered it.
“You shall have the answer, miss, though I thought to spare you,” he
said. “He’s wanted for being an uncommon desperate villain, I am sorry
to say. For treason, and misprision of treason, and conspiracy. Ay, but
that’s the man you’ve come away with,” shaking his head solemnly. “He’s
wanted for bloody conspiracy—ay, it is so indeed—equal to any Guy
Fawkes, against my lord the King, his crown and dignity! Seven
indictments—and not mere counts, miss—have been found against him, and
those who were with him, and him the worst! And when he’s taken, as
he’s sure to be taken by-and-by, he’ll suffer!” And Mr. Bishop nodded
portentously.
Her face was quite white now.
“Mr. Stewart?” she gasped.
“You call him Stewart,” the runner replied coolly. “I call him
Walterson—Walterson the younger. But he has passed by a capful of
names. Anyway, he’s wanted for the business in Spa Fields in ’16, and
half a dozen things besides!”
The colour returned to Henrietta’s cheeks with a rush. Her fine eyes
glowed, her lips parted.
“A conspirator!” she murmured. “A conspirator!” She fondled the word as
if it had been “love” or “kisses.” “I suppose, then,” she continued,
with a sidelong look at Bishop, “if he were taken he would lose his
life?”
“Sure as eggs!”
Henrietta drew a deep breath; and with the same sidelong look:
“He would be beheaded—in the Tower?”
The runner laughed with much enjoyment.
“Lord save your innocent heart, miss,” he said—“no! He would just hang
outside Newgate.”
She shuddered violently at that. The glow of eye and cheek faded, and
tears rose instead. She walked to a window, and with her back to them
dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Then she turned.
“Is that all?” she said.
“Good God!” Bishop cried. He stared, nonplussed. “Is that all?” he
said. “Would you have more?”
“Neither more nor less,” she answered—between tears and smiles, if his
astonished eyes did not deceive him. “For now I know—I know why he left
me, why he is not here.”
“Good lord!”
“If you thought, sir,” she continued, drawing herself up and speaking
with indignation, “that because he was in danger, because he was
proscribed, because a price was set on his head, I should desert him,
and betray him, and sell his secrets to you—I, his wife—you were indeed
mistaken!”
“But damme!” Mr. Bishop cried in amazement almost too great for words,
“you are not his wife!”
“In the sight of Heaven,” she answered firmly, “I am!” She was shaking
with excitement. “In the sight of Heaven I am!” she repeated solemnly.
And so real was the feeling that she forgot for the moment the
situation in which her lover’s flight had left her. She forgot herself,
forgot all but the danger that menaced him, and the resolution that
never, never, never should it part her from him.
Mr. Bishop would fain have answered fittingly, and to that end sought
words. But he found none strong enough.
“Well, I am dashed!” was all he could find to say. “I _am_ dashed!”
Then—the thing was too much for one—he sought support in Mrs. Gilson’s
eye. “There, ma’am,” he said vehemently, extending one hand, “I ask
you! You are a woman of sense! I ask you! Did you ever? Did you ever,
out of London or in London?”
The landlady’s answer was as downright as it was unwelcome.
“I never see such a fool!” she said, “if that’s what you mean. And
you”—with scorn—“to call yourself a Bow Street man! Bow Street? Bah!”
Mr. Bishop opened his mouth.
“A parish constable’s a Solomon to you!” she continued, before he could
speak.
His face was purple, his surprise ludicrous.
“To me?” he ejaculated incredulously. “S’help me, ma’am, you are mad,
or I am! What have I done?”
“It’s not what you’ve done!” Mrs. Gilson answered grimly. “It’s what
you’ve left undone! Oh, you gaby!” she continued, with unction. “You
poor creature! You bag of goose-feathers! D’you know no more of women
than that? Why, I’ve kept my mouth shut the last ten blessed minutes
for nothing else but to see what a fool you’d make of yourself! And for
certain it was not for nothing!”
Henrietta tapped the table.
“Perhaps when you’ve done,” she said, with tragic dignity, “you will
both be good enough to leave the room. I desire to be alone.”
Her eyes were like stars. In her voice was an odd mixture of elation
and alarm.
Mrs. Gilson turned on the instant and engaged her.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said. “Desire to be alone indeed! You
deserve to be alone, miss, with bread and water, and the lock on the
door! Oh, you may stare! But do you do now what he should have made you
do a half-hour ago! And then you’ll feel a little less like a play
actress! Alone indeed! Read that letter and tell me then what you think
of yourself!”
Henrietta’s eyes sparkled with anger, but she fought hard for her
dignity.
“I am not used to impertinence,” she said. “You forget yourself!”
“Read,” Mrs. Gilson retorted, “and say what you like then. You’ll have
little stomach for saying anything,” she added in an undertone, “or I’m
a Dutchman!”
Henrietta saw nothing for it but to read under protest, and she did so
with a smile of contempt. In the circumstances it seemed the easier
course. But alas! as she read, her pretty, angry face changed. She had
that extreme delicacy of complexion which betrays the least ebb and
flow of feeling: and in turn perplexity, wonder, resentment, all were
painted there, and vividly. She looked up.
“To whom was this written?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
Mrs. Gilson was pitiless.
“Look at the beginning!” she answered.
The girl turned back mechanically, and read that which she had read
before. But then with surprise; now with dread.
“Who is—Sally?” she muttered.
Despite herself, her voice seemed to fail her on the word. And she
dared not meet their eyes.
“Who’s Sally?” Mrs. Gilson repeated briskly. “Why, his wife, to be
sure! Who should she be?”