MR. JOSEPH NADIN
The words were addressed to Mr. Sutton, who did not seem able to shut
the door. But the answer came from the other side of the door.
“By your leave,”—the voice, a little breathless, was Mrs. Gilson’s—“I’m
coming in too.” And she came in at that, and brusquely. “I think you
are over many men for one woman,” she continued, setting her cap
straight, and otherwise not a whit discomposed by the men’s attitude.
“You’ll want me before you are done, you’ll see.”
“Want you?” the strange man answered with sarcasm. “Then when we want
you we’ll send for you.”
“No you’ll not, Joe Nadin,” she retorted, coolly, as she closed the
door behind her. “For I’ll be here. What you will be wanting,” with a
toss of her double chin, “will be wit. But that’s not to be had for the
sending.”
Nadin—he was the deputy-constable of Manchester, and the most famous
police officer of that day, a man as warmly commended by the Tory party
as he was fiercely hated by the Radicals—would have given an angry
answer. But Bishop was before him.
“Let her be,” he said—with friendly deference. “We may want her, as she
says. And the young lady is waiting. Now, miss,” he continued,
addressing Henrietta, who stood at the table trying to hide the
perturbation which these preliminaries caused her, “I’ve brought Mr.
Sutton to tell us in your presence what he knows. I doubt it won’t go
far. So that when we have heard him we shall want a good deal from
you.”
“Ay, from you, young lady,” the Manchester man struck in, taking the
word out of the other’s mouth. “It will be your turn then. And what we
want we must have, or——”
“Or what?” she asked, with an air of dignity that sat strangely on one
so young. They did not guess how her heart was beating!
“Or ’twill be Appleby gaol!” he answered. “That’s the long and the
short of it. There’s an end of shilly-shallying! You’ve to make your
choice, and time’s precious. But the reverend gentleman has first say.
Speak up, Mr. Chaplain! You followed this young lady last night about
ten o’clock? Very good. Now what did you see and hear?”
Mr. Sutton looked miserably downcast. But he was on the horns of a
dilemma, and while he knew that by speaking he forfeited all chance of
Henrietta’s favour, he knew that he must speak: that he had no choice.
Obstinate as he could be upon occasion, in the grasp of such a man as
Nadin he succumbed. He owned that not the circumstances only but the
man were too strong for him. Yet he made one effort to stand on his own
legs. “I think Miss Damer would prefer to tell the tale herself,” he
said, with a spark of dignity. “In that case I have nothing to say.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Henrietta answered, her lip curling. And
she looked at him as she would have looked at Judas.
“Still,” he murmured, with a side-glance at Nadin, “if you would be
advised by me——”
“I have nothing to say,” she said curtly.
“Mind you, I’ve told her nothing.” Mrs. Gilson said, intervening in
time to prevent an outburst on Nadin’s part. “I was bid to get her
shoes, and I got her shoes. I held my tongue.”
“Then she knows nothing!” the chaplain exclaimed.
“Oh, she knows enough,” Nadin struck in, his harsh, dogmatic nature
getting the better of him. “If she did not know we should not come to
her. We know our business. Now, where’s the man hiding? For there the
boy will be. Where did you leave him, my lass?”
Mr. Sutton, whom circumstances had forced into a part so distasteful,
saw a chance of helping the girl; and even of reinstating himself in
some degree in her eyes.
“I can answer that,” he said. “She did not meet him. The young lady
went to the bottom of Troutbeck Lane, where, I understand, the boat
came to land. But there was no one there to meet her. And she came back
without seeing any one. I can vouch for that. And that,” the chaplain
continued, throwing out his chest, and speaking with dignity, “is all
that Miss Damer did, and I can speak to it.”
Nadin exploded.
“Don’t tell me that she went to the place for nothing, man!”
“I tell you only what happened,” the chaplain answered, sticking to his
point. “She saw no one, and spoke to no one.”
“Hang me if I don’t think you are in with her!” Nadin replied in an
insulting tone. And then turning to Henrietta, “Now then, out with it!
Where is he?”
But Henrietta, battered by the man’s coarse voice and manner, still
held her ground.
“If I knew I should not tell you,” she said.
“Then you’ll go to Appleby gaol!”
“And still I shall not tell you.”
“Understand! Understand!” Nadin replied. “I’ve a warrant here granted
in Lancashire and backed here and in order! A warrant to take him. You
can see it if you like. Don’t say I took advantage of you. I’m rough,
but I’m square,” he continued, his broad dialect such that a Southerner
would not have understood him. “The lads know me, and you’ll know me
before we’ve done!”
“Then it won’t be for your wisdom!” Mrs. Gilson muttered. And then more
loudly, “Why don’t you tell her what’s been done? Happen she knows, and
happen she doesn’t. If she does ’tis all one. If she doesn’t you’re
talking to deaf ears.”
Nadin shrugged his shoulders and struck his boot with his whip.
“Well,” he said, “an old lass with a long tongue will have her way i’
Lancashire or where it be! Tell her yourself. But she knows, I
warrant!”
Mrs. Gilson also thought so, but she was not sure.
“See here, miss,” she said, “you know Captain Clyne’s son?”
Henrietta’s colour rose at the name.
“Of course you do,” the landlady continued, “for if all’s true you are
some sort of connection. Then you know, Miss, that he’s the apple of
his father’s eye, and the more for being a lameter?”
Henrietta could not hear Anthony Clyne’s name without agitation;
without vague apprehensions and a sense of coming evil. Why did they
bring in the name? And what were they going to tell her about the
boy—of whom in the old days she had been contemptuously jealous? She
felt her face burn under the gaze of all those eyes fixed on it. And
her own eyes sank.
“Well,” she muttered indistinctly, “what of him? What has he to do with
this?”
“He is missing. He has been stolen.”
“Stolen?”
Her tone was one of sharp surprise.
“He was carried off last night by two men,” Bishop struck in. “His
nurse was returning to the house near Newby Bridge—hard on nightfall,
when she met two men on the road. They asked the name of the place,
heard what it was, and asked who the child was. She told them, and they
went one way and she another, but before she reached home they overtook
her, seized her and bound her, and disappeared with the boy. It was
dusk and she might have lain in the ditch and died. But the servants in
the house went out when she did not return and found her.” He looked at
Nadin. “That’s so, isn’t it?”
“Ay, that’s it,” the other answered, nodding. “You’ve got it pat.”
“When she could speak, the alarm was given, they raised the country,
the men were traced to Newby Bridge. There we know a boat met them and
took them off. And the point, miss, is not so much where they landed,
for that we know—’twas at the bottom of Troutbeck Lane!—as where they
are now.”
She had turned pale and red and pale again, while she listened.
Astonishment had given place to horror, and resentment to pity. In
women, even the youngest, there is a secret tenderness for children;
and the thought of this child, cast lame and helpless into the hands of
strangers, and exposed, in place of the care to which he had been
accustomed all his life, to brutality and hardships, pierced the crust
of jealousy and melted the woman’s heart. Her eyes filled with tears,
and through the tears indignation burned. For a moment even the insult
which Anthony Clyne had put upon her was forgotten. She thought only of
the father’s misery, his suspense, his grief. She yearned to him.
“Oh!” she cried, “the wretches!” And her voice rang bravely. “But—but
why are you here? Why do you not follow them?”
Nadin’s eyes met Bishop’s. He raised his eyebrows.
“Because, miss,” he said, “we think there’s a shorter way to them.
Because we think you can tell us where they are if you choose.”
“I can tell you where they are?” she repeated.
“Yes, miss. We believe that you can—if you choose. And you _must_
choose.”
The girl stared. Then slowly she comprehended. She grasped the fact
that they addressed the question to her, that they believed that she
was at one with the men who had done this. And a change as
characteristic of her nature as it was unexpected by those who watched
her, swept over her face. Her features quivered, and, even as when
Anthony Clyne’s proposal wounded her pride to the quick, she turned
from them, and bowing her head on her hands broke into weeping.
They were all taken aback. They had looked some for one thing, some for
another; some for rage and scorn, some for sullen denial. No one had
foreseen this breakdown. Nor was it welcome. Nadin found himself
checked on the threshold of success, and swore under his breath.
Bishop, who had broken a lance with her before, and was more or less
tender-hearted, looked vexed. Mr. Sutton showed open distress—her
weeping hurt him, and at every quiver of her slight, girlish figure he
winced. While Mrs. Gilson frowned; perhaps at the clumsiness and
witlessness of men-folk. But she did not interfere, and the chaplain
dared not interfere: and Nadin was left to deal with the girl as he
pleased.
“There, miss,” he said, speaking a little less harshly, “tears mend no
bones. And there’s one thing clear in this and not to be denied—the men
who have taken the lad are friends of your friend. And not a doubt he’s
in it. We’ve traced them to a place not three hundred yards from here.
They’ve vanished where he vanished, and there’s no need of magic to
tell that the same hole hides all. I was on the track of the men with a
warrant—for they are d——d Radicals as ever were!—when they slipped off
and played this pretty trick by the way. Whether they have kidnapped
the lad out of revenge, or for a hostage, I’m in the dark. But put-up
job or not, you are not the young lady to back up such doings. I see
that with half an eye,” he added cunningly, “and therefore——”
“Have you got it from her?”
Nadin turned with a frown—the interruption came from Mr. Hornyold. The
justice had just entered, and stood booted, spurred, and pompous on the
threshold. He carried his heavy riding-whip, and was in all points
ready for the road.
“No, not yet,” Nadin answered curtly, “but——”
“You’d better; let me try her, then,” the magistrate rejoined, all
fussiness and importance. “There’s no time to be lost. We’re getting
together. I’ve a dozen mounted men in the yard, and they are coming in
from Rydal side. We shall have two score in an hour. We’ll have the
hills scoured before nightfall, and long before Captain Clyne is here.”
“Quite so, squire,” Nadin replied drily. “But if the young lady will
tell us where the scoundrel lies we’ll be spared the trouble. Now,
miss,” he continued, forgetting, under the impetus of Hornyold’s
manner, the more diplomatic line he had been following, “we’ve a d——d
clear case against you, and that’s flat. We can trace you to where they
landed last night, and we know that you were there within a few minutes
of the time; for we’ve their footsteps from the boat to the wood above
the road, and your footsteps from the boat to the inn. There is as much
evidence of aiding and abetting as would transport a dozen men! So do
you be wise, and tell us straight off what we want.”
But two words had caught her ear.
“Aiding and abetting?” she muttered. And she turned her eyes, still
bright with tears, upon him. Her flushed face and ruffled hair gave her
a strangely childish appearance. “Aiding and abetting? Do you mean that
you think that I—that I had anything to do with taking the child?”
“No, no,” Bishop murmured hurriedly, and cast a warning look at his
colleague. “No, no, not knowingly.”
“Nay, but that depends,” Nadin persisted obstinately. His fibre was
coarser, and his perceptions were less acute. It was his habit to gain
his ends by fear, and he was unwilling to lose the hold he had over
her. “That depends,” he repeated doggedly. “If you speak and tell us
all you know, of course not. But if you do not speak, we shall take it
against you.”
“You will take it,” she cried, “that I—I helped to steal the child?”
“Just so, if you don’t speak,” Nadin repeated, disregarding his
fellow’s signals. Firmness, he was sure, was all that was needed. Just
firmness.
She was silent in great agitation. They suspected her! Oh, it was
wicked, it was vile of them! She would not have touched a hair of the
child’s head. And they suspected Walterson; but it might be as falsely,
it must be as falsely. Yet if she gave him up, even if he were innocent
he would suffer. He would suffer on other charges, and she would have
his blood on her hands though she had so often, so often, resolved that
she would not be driven to that!
They asked too much of her. They asked her to betray the man to death
on the chance—and she did not believe in the chance—that it would
restore the child to its father. She shuddered as she thought of the
child, as she thought of Anthony Clyne’s grief; she would willingly
have done much to help the one and the other. But they asked too much.
If it were anything short of the man’s life that they asked, she would
be guided, she would do as they bade her. But this step was
irrevocable: and she was asked to take it on a chance. Possibly they
did not themselves believe in the chance. Possibly they made the charge
for their own purposes, their aim to get the man into their power, the
blood-money into their purse. She shuddered at that and found the
dilemma cruel. But she had no doubt which course she must follow. No
longer did any thought of herself or of the annoyances of his arrest
weigh with her: thought of the child had outweighed all that. But she
would not without proof, without clear proof, have the man’s blood on
her hands.
And regarding them with a pale set face,
“If you have proof,” she said, “that he—Walterson—” she pronounced the
name with an effort—“was concerned in carrying off the child, I will
speak.”
“Proof?” Nadin barked.
“Yes,” she said. “If you can satisfy me that he was privy to this—I
will tell you all I know.”
Nadin exploded.
“Proof?” he cried with violence. “Why, by G—d, was he not at the place
where we know the men landed? And didn’t you expect to meet him there?
And at the very hour?”
“He was not there,” she cried.
“But——”
“And I was there,” she continued, “yet I know nothing. I am innocent.”
“Umph! I don’t know!” Nadin growled.
“But I do,” she replied. “If your proof comes only to that—”
“But the men who took the child are old mates of his!”
“How do you know?” she returned. “You did not see them. They may not be
the men you wished to arrest. But,” scornfully, “I see what kind of
proof you have, and I shall not tell you.”
“Come, miss,” Bishop said, staying with difficulty Nadin’s furious
answer. “Come, miss, think! Think again. Think of the child!”
“Oh, sink the child,” the Manchester officer struck in. He had seldom
been so handled. “Think of yourself!”
“You will send me to prison?” she said.
“By heaven we will!” he answered. And Mr. Hornyold nodded.
“It must be so, then,” she replied with dignity. “I shall not speak. I
have no right to speak.”
They all cried out on her, Bishop and Mr. Sutton appealing to her,
Nadin growling oaths, Mr. Hornyold threatening that he would make out
the warrant that minute. Only the landlady, with her apron rolled round
her arms, stood grim and silent; a looker-on whose taciturnity
presently irritated Nadin beyond bearing. “I suppose you think,” he
said, turning to her, “that you could have handled her better?”
“I couldn’t ha’ handled her worse!” the landlady replied.
“You think yourself a Solomon!” he sneered.
“A girl of ten’s a Solomon to you!” the landlady retorted keenly. “It
canna be for this, it surely canna be for this, Joe Nadin, that they
pay you money at Manchester, and that ’tis said you go in risk of your
life! Why, that Bishop, London chap as he is, is a greybeard beside
you. He does know that Bluster is a good dog but Softly is better!”
“Well, as I live by bread I’ll have her in the Stone Jug!” he retorted.
“And then we’ll see!”
“There’s another will see before you!” Mrs. Gilson answered drily. “And
it strikes me he’s not far off. If you’d left her alone for just an
hour and seen what his honour Captain Clyne could do with her, you’d
have shown your sense!” shrugging her shoulders. “Now, I fear you’ve
spoiled his market, my lad!”