CAPTAIN CLYNE’S PLAN
For a full hundred yards Henrietta walked on with her head in the air,
too angry to accost or even to look at her companion; who, on his part,
tripped meekly beside her. Then a sense of the absurdity of the
position—of his position rather than her own, for she had whirled him
off whether he would or no—overcame her. And she laughed.
“Was ever anything so ridiculous?” she cried. And she looked at him
askance and something ashamed. The quick movement which had enabled her
to escape had loosened the thick mass of her fair hair, and this, with
her flushed cheeks and kindled eyes, showed her so handsome that it was
well the impetuous justice was no longer with her.
The stranger was apparently less impressionable.
“I am glad,” he said primly, “that my coming was so opportune.”
“Oh! I was not afraid of him,” Henrietta answered, tossing her head.
“No?” he rejoined. “Indeed. Still, I am glad that I came so
opportunely.”
He was a neat, trim man in black, of a pale complexion, and with the
small features and the sharp nose that indicate at once timidity and
obstinacy; the nose that in the case of the late Right Honourable
William Pitt, whom he was proud to resemble, meant something more. But
for a pair of bright eyes he had been wholly mean, and wholly
insignificant; and Henrietta saw nothing in him either formidable or
attractive. She had a notion that she had seen him somewhere; but it
was a vague notion, and how he came to be here or commissioned to her
she could no more conjecture than if he had risen from the ground.
“You are a stranger here?” she said at last, after more than one
side-long glance.
“Yes, I descended from the coach an hour ago.”
“And came in search of me?”
“Precisely,” he replied. “Being empowered to do so,” he continued, with
a slight but formal bow, “by Captain Anthony Clyne, to whom I have the
honour—my name is Sutton—of being related in the capacity of chaplain.”
She coloured more violently with shame than before with anger: and all
her troubles came back to her. Probably this man knew all; knew what
she had done and what had happened to her. It was cruel—oh, it was
cruel to send him! For a moment she could not collect her thoughts or
master her voice. But at last,
“Oh!” she said confusedly. “I see. A lovely view from here, is it not?”
“Yes, to be sure,” he replied, with the same precision with which he
had spoken before. “I ought to have noticed it.”
“And you bring me a letter?”
“It was Captain Clyne’s wish that I——” he hesitated, and was plainly
embarrassed—“that I should, in fact, offer my company for a day or two.
While you are under the care of the good woman at the inn.”
She turned her face towards him, and regarded him with a mixture of
surprise and distaste. Then,
“Indeed?” she said coldly. “In what capacity, if you please?”
But the words said, she felt her cheeks grow hot. They thought so ill
of her, she had so misbehaved herself, that a duenna was not enough; a
clergyman must be sent to lecture her. By-and-by he would talk
goody-goody to her, such as they talked to Lucy in _The Fairchild
Family!_ Save that she was grown up and Lucy was not!
“But it does not matter,” she continued hurriedly, and before he could
answer, “I am obliged to you, but Mrs. Gilson is quite able to take
care of me.”
“And yet I came very opportunely—just now,” he said. “I am glad I came
so opportunely.”
Reminded of the insolence to which her loneliness had exposed her,
Henrietta felt her cheek grow hot again.
“Oh,” she said, “I did not need you! But I thought you said you brought
a letter?”
“I have a letter. But I beg leave—to postpone its delivery for a day or
two.”
“How?” in astonishment. “If it is for me?”
“By Captain Clyne’s directions,” he answered.
She stopped short and faced him, rebellion in her eyes.
“Then why,” she said proudly, “seek me out now if this letter is not to
be delivered at once?”
“That, too, is by his order,” Mr. Sutton explained in the same tone.
“And pardon me for saying,” he continued, with a meaning cough, “that I
have seen enough to be assured of Captain Clyne’s forethought. Apart
from which, in Lancashire, at any rate, the times are so troubled, the
roads so unsafe, the common people so outrageous, that for a young lady
to walk out alone is not safe.”
“He should have sent a servant, then!” she answered sharply.
A faint colour rose to the chaplain’s cheeks.
“He thought me more trustworthy, perhaps,” he said meekly. “And it is
possible he was under the impression that my company might be more
acceptable.”
“If I may be plain,” she answered tartly, “I am in no mood for a
stranger’s company.”
“And yet,” he said, with a gleam of appeal in his eyes, “I would fain
hope to make myself acceptable.”
She gave him no direct answer; only,
“I cannot understand, I really cannot understand,” she said, “of what
he was thinking. You had better give me the letter now, sir. I may find
something in that which may explain.”
But he only cast down his eyes.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I must not disobey the directions which
Captain Clyne laid upon me.”
“Very good,” she retorted; “that is as you please. Only—our paths
separate here. The road we are on will take you to the inn—you cannot
miss it. My path lies this way.”
And with a stiff little bow she laid her hand on the gate which gave
entrance to the field-path; the same path that led down through the
coppice to the back of the Low Wood inn. She passed through.
He hesitated an instant, then he also turned in at the gate. And as she
halted, eyeing him in displeasure—
“I really cannot let you stray from the high-road alone,” he said. “You
will pardon me, I am sure, if I seem intrusive. But it is not safe. I
have seen enough,” with a smirk, “to know that—that beauty unattended
goes in danger amid these lovely”—he waved his hand in kindly patronage
of the lake—“these lovely, but wild surroundings.”
“You mean,” she answered, with a dangerous light in her eyes, “that you
will force your company on me, sir? Whether I will or no?”
“Not force, no! No! No! But I must, I can only do as I am ordered. I
should not presume of myself,” he continued, with a touch of real
humility—“even to offer my company. I should not look so high. I should
think such an honour above me. But I was led to believe——”
“By Captain Clyne?”
“Yes, that—that, in fact, you were willing to make what amends you
could for the injury done to him. And that, if only for that reason, I
might expect a more favourable reception at your hands.”
“But why, sir?—why?” she cried, cut to the quick. To suffer this man,
this stranger, to talk to her of making amends!” What good will it do
to Captain Clyne if I receive you ever so favourably?”
He looked at her humbly, with appeal in his eyes.
“If you would deign to wait,” he said, and he wiped his forehead, “I
think I could make that more clear to you afterwards.”
But very naturally his persistence offended her. That word amends, too,
stuck in her throat. Her pride, made restive by her encounter with
Hornyold, was up in arms.
“I shall not wait a moment,” she said. “Not a moment! Understand, sir,
that if you accompany me against my will, my first act on reaching the
inn will be to complain to the landlady, and seek her protection.”
“Surely not against Captain Clyne’s pleni—plenipotentiary?” he murmured
abjectly. “Surely not!”
“I do not know what a pleni-plenipotentiary is,” she retorted. “But if
you follow me, you follow at your peril!”
And she turned her back on him, and plunged downwards through the wood.
She did not deign to look behind; but her ears told her that he was not
following. For the rest, all the beauty of the wood, shot through with
golden lights, all the cool loveliness of the dell, with its emerald
mosses and flash of jewelled wings, were lost upon her now, so sore was
she and so profoundly humiliated. Twice in one morning she had been
insulted. Twice in one hour had a man shown her that he held her fair
game. Were they right, then, who preached that outside the sanctum of
home no girl was safe? Or was it her story, her conduct, her disgrace,
known to all for miles round, that robbed her of the right to respect?
Either way she was unhappy, frightened, nay, shocked; and she longed to
be within doors, where she need not restrain herself. Too proud to
confide in Mrs. Gilson, she longed none the less for some one to whom
she could unburden herself. Was she to go through the world exposed to
such scenes? Must she be daily and hourly on her guard against rude
insult, or more odious gallantries? And if these things befell her in
this quiet spot, what must she expect in the world, deserted as she was
by all those who would once have protected her?
She looked to gain her room without further unpleasantness; for the
path she followed led her to the back door, and she could enter that
way. But she was not to be so fortunate. In the yard, awaiting her with
his hat in his hand and the flush of haste on his pallid face, was Mr.
Sutton.
Poor Henrietta! she ground her small teeth together in her rage, and
her face was scarlet. But her mind was made up. If Mr. Sutton counted
on her being worse than her word she would show him his mistake.
“I shall send for the landlady,” she said; and beckoning to a
stable-help who was crossing the yard with a bucket, “Fetch Mrs.
Gilson,” she said. “Tell her——”
“One moment!” Mr. Sutton interposed with meek firmness. “I am going to
give you the letter. It will explain all, and I hope justify my
conduct, which I cannot believe to have been offensive.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Henrietta said loftily. She held out her
hand. “The letter, sir, if you please.”
“One favour, I beg,” he said, with a gesture that deprecated her
impatience. He waved the groom out of hearing. “This is not a fit place
for you or”—with a return of dignity—“for the business on which I am
here. Do me the favour of seeing me within or of walking a few yards
with me. There is a seat by the lake, if you will not admit me to your
apartments.”
She frowned at him. But she saw the wisdom of concluding the matter,
and she led the way into the road and turned to the right. Immediately,
however, she remembered that the Ambleside road would lead her to the
spot where Captain Clyne had taken leave of her, and she turned and
walked the other way until she came to the place where the Troutbeck
lane diverged. There she stood.
“The letter, if you please,” she said. She spoke with the contemptuous
hardness which youth, seldom considerate of others’ feelings, is prone
to display.
He held it an instant in his hand as if he could not bear to part with
it. But at last, with a dismal look and an abject sentence or two, he
gave it up.
“I beg you, I implore you,” he muttered as she took it, “to announce no
hasty decision. To believe that I am something more and better than you
think me now. And that ill as I have set myself before you, I would
fain labour to show myself more—more worthy!”
The words were so strange, his manner was so puzzling, that they
pierced the armour of her dislike. She paused, staring at him.
“Worthy!” she exclaimed. “Worthy of what?”
“The letter——”
“Yes, the letter will tell me.”
And with a haughty air she broke the seal. As she read she turned
herself from him, so that he saw little more of her face than her
firmly moulded chin. But when she had carried her eyes some way down
the sheet he noticed that her hands began to shake.
“Henrietta,” so Captain Clyne began,—“for to add any term of endearment
were either too little or too much—I have thought long and painfully,
as becomes one who expected to be by this time your husband, on the
situation in which you have placed yourself by an escapade, the
consequences of which, whatever action be taken, must be permanently
detrimental. Of these, as they touch myself, I say nothing, the object
of these lines being to indicate a way by which I trust your honour and
character may be redeemed. The bearer, whom I know for a man of merit
and respectability, saw you by chance on the occasion of your visit to
my house, and, as I learned by a word indiscreetly dropped, admired
you. He has been admitted to the secret of your adventure, and is
willing, without more and upon my representation of the facts of the
case, to make you his wife and to give you the shelter of his name.
After long thought I can devise no better course, whereby, innocent of
aught but folly, as I believe you to be, the honour of the family can
be preserved. Still, I would not suggest or advise the step were I not
sure that Mr. Sutton, though beneath us by extraction, is a person of
parts and worth in whose hands your future will be safe, while his
material prosperity shall be my care. I have advised him to take such
opportunities as offer of commending himself to you before delivering
this note. Gladly would I counsel you to take the advice of your
brother and his wife were I not aware how bitter is their resentment
and how complete their estrangement. I, on the other hand, whose right
to advise you may question—— But it were idle to say more than that I
forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. Nor will your interests ever be
indifferent to
“Your kinsman,
“Anthony Clyne.”
Mr. Sutton noted the growing tremour of the hands which held the
paper—he could hear it rustle. And his face, usually so pallid,
flushed. Into the greyness of a life that had been happier if the
chaplain had possessed less of those parts for which Captain Clyne
commended him, had burst this vision of a bride, young, beautiful, and
brilliant; a daughter of that world which thought him honoured by the
temporary possession of a single finger, or the gift of a careless nod.
Who could blame him if he succumbed? Aladdin, on the point of marriage
with the daughter of the Sultan, bent to no greater temptation; nor any
barber or calendar of them all, when on the verge of a like match. He
had seen Henrietta once only, he had viewed her then as a thing of
grace and refinement meet only for his master. At the prospect of
possessing her, such scruples as rose in his mind faded quickly. He
told himself that he would be foolish indeed if he did not carry the
matter through with a bold face; or if for fear of a few hard words, or
a pouting beauty, he yielded up the opportunity of a life.
On the hill he had proved himself equal to the call. Not so now. He had
pictured the girl taking the news in many ways, in scorn, in anger,
with shallow coquetry, or in dull resignation. But he had never
anticipated the way in which she did take it. When she had read the
letter to the end she turned her back on him and bent her head.
“Oh!” she cried; and broke into weeping—not passionate nor bitter, he
was prepared for that—but the soft and helpless weeping of a broken
thing.
That they, that Anthony Clyne, above all, should do this to her! That
he should think of her as a chattel to be handed from one to another, a
girl so light that all men were the same to her, if they were men! That
they, that he should hold her so cheap, deem her so smirched by what
had passed, misread her so vilely as to think that she had fallen to
this! That with indifference she would give herself to any man, no
matter to whom, if she could that way keep her name and hold up her
head!
It hurt her horribly. Nay, for the time it broke her down. The mid-day
coach swept by to the inn door, and the parson, standing beside her,
ashamed of himself and conscious of the passengers’ curious glances,
wished himself anywhere else. But she was wounded too sorely to care
who saw or who heard; and she wept openly though quietly until the
first sharpness of the pain was blunted. Then he thought, as her
sobbing grew less vehement, that his time was come, that he might yet
be heard. And he murmured that he was grieved, he was sorely grieved.
“So am I!” she said, dabbing her eyes with her wet handkerchief. She
sobbed out the words so humbly, so weakly, that he was encouraged.
“Then may I—may I return presently?” he murmured, with a nervous cough.
“You must stand in need of advice? And—and by some one near you? When
you are more composed perhaps? Yes. Not that there is any hurry,” he
added quickly, frightened by a movement of her shoulders. “Not at all.
I’ll not say another word now! By-and-by, by-and-by, dear young lady,
you will be more composed. To-morrow, if you prefer it, or even the
next day. I shall wait, and I shall be here.”
She gave her eyes a last dab and turned.
“I do not blame you,” she said, her voice broken by a sob. “You did not
know me. But you must go back—you must go back to him at once and tell
him that I—that he has punished me as sharply as he could wish.” She
dabbed her face again. “I do not know what I shall think of him
presently, but I—— Oh, oh!” with a fresh burst of tears, “that he
should do this to me!—that he should do this!”
He did not know her, as she said; and, small blame to him, he misread
her. Because she neither stormed nor sneered, but only wept in this
heart-broken fashion, like a child cowed by a beating, he fancied that
the task before him was not above his powers. He thought her plastic, a
creature easily moulded; and that already she was bending herself to
the fate proposed for her. And in soothing tones, for he was genuinely
sorry for her, “There, there, my dear young lady,” he said, “I know it
is something hard. It is hard. But in a little while, a very little
while, I trust, it will seem less hard. And there is time before us.
Time to become acquainted, time to gain knowledge of one another.
Plenty of time! There is no hurry.”
She lowered her handkerchief from her eyes and looked at him, over it,
as if, without understanding, she thanked him for his sympathy. With
her tear-washed eyelashes and rumpled hair and neck-ribbon she looked
more childish, she seemed to him less formidable. He took heart of
grace to go on.
“Captain Clyne shall be told what you feel about it,” he said, thinking
to soothe and humour her. “He shall be told all in good time. And
everything I can say and anything I can do to lighten the burden and
meet your wishes——”
“You?”
“——I shall do, be sure!”
He was beginning to feel his feet, and he spoke earnestly. He spoke, to
do him justice, with feeling.
“Your happiness,” he said, “will be the one, at any rate the first, and
main object of my life. As time goes on I hope and believe that you
will find a recompense in the service and devotion of a life, although
a humble life; and always I will be patient. I will wait, my dear young
lady, in good hope.”
“Of what?”
The tone of the two words shook Mr. Sutton unpleasantly. He reddened.
But with an effort,
“In what hope?” he answered, embarrassed by the sudden rigidity of her
face. “In the hope,” with a feeble smile, “that in no long time—I am
presumptuous, I know—you will see some merit in me, my dear young lady.
And will assent to my wishes, my humble, ardent wishes, and those of my
too-generous patron.”
There were no tears in her eyes now. She seemed to tower above him in
her indignation.
“Your wishes, you miserable little man?” she cried, with a look which
pierced his vanity to the quick. “They are nothing to me! Go back to
your master!”
And before he could rally his forces or speak, she was gone from him
into the house. He heard a snigger behind the hedge, but by the time he
had climbed the bank—with a crimson face—there was no one to be seen.
He stood an instant, brooding, with his eyes on the road.
“A common man would give up,” he muttered. “But I shall not! I am no
common man. I shall not give up.”