A RECONCILIATION
When she had filled her band-box, and with a tearful laugh looked her
last on the cell, she emerged from the yard. She found Captain Clyne
awaiting her with his hand on the key of the prison gate. He saw her
look doubtfully at the closed lodge-door; and he misread the look.
“I thought,” he said, “that you would wish to be spared seeing more of
them. I have,” with a faint smile, “authority to open.”
“Oh!” she answered, wrinkling her pretty brow in perplexity. “But I
must see them, please. They have not been unkind to me, and I should
not like to go without thanking them.”
And before he could remonstrate, she had pushed open the lodge door and
gone within.
“Now, Mrs. Weighton,” he heard her cry, “you’ll give me a character,
won’t you? I’ve behaved well now, haven’t I?”
“Yes, miss, I’ll say that,” the woman answered stolidly.
“I haven’t scratched nor screamed, and I’ve done as I’ve been bid? And
you’ve had no use for the pump water?”
“I wish you hadn’t swept out the yard,” grudgingly; “’twas no order of
mine, you’ll remember. And don’t you go and say that I’ve treated you
ill!”
“I’ll not! Indeed, I’ll not!” Henrietta cried in a different tone.
“I’ll say you treated me very well. And that is for your little girl to
make up for her disappointment. She’ll be sorry I’m not going to be
transported,” with a hint of laughter in her voice. “And, Mrs.
Weighton, I’m going to ask you something.”
“Well, miss? If it is to oblige you?”
“Then, will you,” in a tone touched by feeling, “if you have some day
another like me, will you be as good to her? And remember that she may
not have done anything wrong after all? Will you promise me?”
“I will, miss,” Mrs. Weighton answered—very graciously for her. “But
there, it isn’t all has your sense! They takes and runs their heads
against a brick wall! Either they scratches and screams, or they sulks
and starves. And then we’ve to manage them, and we get the blame. I see
you looked white and shivering when you come in, and I thought we’d
have trouble with you. But there, you kept yourself in hand, and showed
your sense—it’s breeding does it—and you’ve naught to complain of in
consequence. Wishing you well and kindly, miss!”
“I _shall_ come to you for a character!” Henrietta replied with a
laugh.
And she came out quickly and joined Captain Clyne, who, waiting with
his hand on the lock, had heard all. He saw that though she laughed
there was a tear in her eye; and the mingling of gaiety and sensibility
in her conduct and her words was not lost upon him. She seemed to be
bent on putting him in the wrong; on proving to him that she was not
the silly-pated child he had deemed her! Even the praise of this
jailor’s wife, a coarse, cross-grained woman, sounded reproachfully in
his ears. She was a better judge, it seemed, than he.
He put Henrietta into the chaise—the brisk, cold air of the winter
morning was welcome to her; and they set off. Gnawed as he was by
unhappy thoughts, wretchedly anxious as he was, he was silent for a
time. He knew what he wanted, but he was ashamed to clutch at that
advantage for the sake of which Sutton had resigned to him the mission.
And for a long time he sat mute and brooding in his corner, the bright
reflection of the snow adding pallor to his face. Yet he had eyes for
her: he watched her without knowing it. And at the third milestone from
Kendal, a little beyond Barnside, he saw her shiver.
“I am afraid you are cold?” he said, and wondering at the rôle he
played, he drew the wraps closer about her—with care, however, that his
fingers should not touch her.
“No,” she answered frankly. “I am not cold. But I remember passing that
mile-stone. I was almost sick with fright when I passed it. So that it
was all I could do not to try to get out and escape.”
This was a revelation to him; and not a pleasant one. He winced.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
“Oh, I felt better when I was once in the prison,” she answered
lightly. “And with Mrs. Weighton. Before that I was afraid that there
might be only men.”
He suffered, in the hearing, something of the humiliation which she had
undergone; was she not of his blood and his class—and a woman? But he
could only say again that he was sorry. He was sorry.
A little later he forgot her in his own trouble: in thoughts of his
child, thoughts which tortured him unceasingly, and became more active
as his return to the Low Wood suggested the possibility of news. At one
moment he saw the lad stretched on a pallet, ill and neglected, with no
eye to pity, no hand to soothe; at another he pictured him in some dark
hiding-place with fear for his sole companion. Or again he saw him
beaten and ill-treated, shrieking for the father who had been always to
him as heaven, omniscient and omnipotent—but shrieking in vain. And
then the thought that to one so weak and young a little added hardship,
another day of fear, an insignificant delay, might prove fatal—it was
this thought that wrung the heart most powerfully, and went far towards
maddening the man.
As he sat watching the snow-covered fell slide by the chaise window, he
was unconscious how clearly his misery was stamped on his features; or
how pitiful was the hunger that lurked in the hollows under his eyes.
But when the pace slackened, and the carriage began to crawl up the
long hill beyond Broadgate, a faint sound caught his ear, and he
remembered where he was, and turned. He saw that she was crying.
The same words came to his lips.
“I am sorry. I am very sorry,” he said. “But it is over now.”
“It’s not that,” she sobbed. “I am sorry for you! And for him! The poor
boy! The poor boy! Last night—no, it was the night before—-I thought
that he called to me. I thought that he was there in the room with me!”
“Don’t!” he faltered. “I cannot bear it! Don’t!”
But she did not heed.
“Yes,” she repeated. “And ever since, ever since I’ve been thinking of
him! I’ve wondered, I’ve wondered if I did right!”
He was silent, striving to regain control of himself. But at last,
“Eight in saying nothing?” he asked.
His voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted.
“Yes. I didn’t know”—a little wildly—“I didn’t know what to do. And
then you threatened me, and I—it seemed unreasonable. For I wanted to
help you, I did, I did indeed. But I dared not, I dared not give him
up! I could not have his blood on my hands after—you know.”
“But you no longer—care for him?”
“I loathe him!” she answered with a shudder. “But you see how it is. He
trusted me, and I—how can I betray him? How can I? How can I?”
It was his business to prove to her that she could, that she ought,
that she must; he was here to press her to it, to persuade her, to
cajole her to it, if necessary. He had come for that. But the words it
behoved him to use stuck in his throat. And the chaise rolled on, and
rolled on. And still, but with the sweat standing on his brow, he sat
silent, looking out on the barren landscape, as the stone fences slid
quickly by, or open moorland took their place. In ten minutes they
would be at the Low Wood. Already through her window she could see the
long stretch of sparkling water, and the wooded isles, and the distant
smoke of Ambleside.
Their silence was a tragedy. She could save him by a word, and she
could not say the word. She dared not say it. And he—the pleas he
should have used died on his lips. It behoved him to cast himself on
her mercy; he was here for that purpose. It behoved him to work on her
feelings, to plead with her, to weep, to pray. And he did not, he could
not. And the minutes passed; the wheels rolled and rolled. Soon they
would be at the end of their journey. He was like a famishing man who
sees a meal within reach, but cannot touch it; or like one oppressed by
a terrible nightmare, who knows that he has but to say a word, and he
is freed from the incubus—yet his tongue refuses its office. And now
the carriage, having climbed the rise, began to roll more quickly down
the hill. In a very few minutes they would be at the end of their
journey.
Suddenly—“What can we do?” she cried, piteously. “What can we do? Can
we do nothing? Nothing?”
And neither of the two thought the union of interests strange; any more
than in their absorption they noted the strangeness of this drive in
company—over some of the very road which she had traversed when she
eloped with another to avoid a marriage with him.
He shook his head in dumb misery. Three days of suspense, and as many
sleepless nights, the wear and tear of many journeys, had told upon
him. He had had but little rest, and that induced by sheer exhaustion.
He had taken his meals standing, he had passed many hours of each day
in the saddle. He could no longer command the full resources of his
mind, and though he still held despair at arm’s length, though he still
by force of habit commanded himself, and was stern and reticent,
despondency gained ground upon him. It was she who almost at the last
moment suggested a plan that if not obvious, was simple, and to the
purpose.
“Listen,” she said. “Listen, sir! Why should not I do this? Go myself
to—to him, to Walterson?”
“You?” he answered, with undisguised repugnance.
“Yes, I! I! Why not?” she asked. “And learn if he has the child, or
knows where it is. Then if he be innocent of this last wickedness, as I
believe him to be innocent, we shall learn the fact without harming
him; always supposing that I go to him, undetected. And I can do
that—with your help! That must be your care.”
He pondered.
“But if,” he said slowly, “you do this and he have the child? What
then? Have you thought of the consequences to yourself? If he be privy
to a crime which none but desperate men could commit, what of you? He
will be capable of harming you. Or if he scruple, there will be others,
the men who took my child, who will stick at nothing to keep their
necks out of the noose, and to remove a witness who else might hang
them.”
“I am not afraid,” she said firmly.
“God bless you!” he said. “God bless you! But I am.”
“What?” she cried, and she turned to him, honestly astonished. “You?
You dissuade me when it is your child that is in peril?”
“Be silent!” he said harshly. “Be silent! For your own sake, if not for
mine! Why do you tempt me? Why do you torture me? Do you think,
Henrietta, that I have not enough to tempt me without your help? No,
no,” more quietly, “I have done you wrong already! I know not how I can
make amends. But at least I will not add to the wrong.”
“I only ask you to leave me to myself,” she said hardily. “The rest I
will do, if I am not watched.”
“The rest!” he said with a groan. “But what a rest it is! Why should
these men spare you if you go to them? They did not spare my boy!”
“They took the boy,” she answered, “to punish you. They will not have
the same motive for harming me. I mean—they will not harm me with the
idea of hurting you.”
“Ay, but——”
“They will know that it will not affect you.”
He did not deny the statement, but for some time he drummed on the
window with his fingers.
“That may be,” he said at length. “Yet I’ll not do it! And I’ll not let
you do it. Instead, do you tell me where the man is and I will go to
him myself. And I will tell no tales.”
“You will keep his secret?”
“I will.”
“But I will not do that!” she answered. And she laughed gaily in the
reaction of her spirits. She knew in some subtle way that she was
reinstated; that he would never think very badly of her again. And the
knowledge that he trusted her was joy; she scarcely knew why. But, “I
shall not do that!” she repeated. “Have you thought what will be the
consequence to you if he be guilty? They will be three to one, and they
will murder you.”
“And you think that I can let you run the risk?”
“There will be no risk for me. I am different.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I wish”—despairingly—“I wish to God I
could believe it!”
“Then do believe it,” she said.
“I cannot! I cannot!”
“You have his letter,” she replied. And she was going to say more, she
was going to prove that she could undertake the matter with safety,
when the chaise began to slacken speed, and she cut her reasoning
short. “You will let me do it?” she said, laying her hand on his
sleeve.
“No, no!”
“You have only to draw them off.”
“I shall not!” he cried, almost savagely. “I shall not! Do you think I
am a villain? Do you think I care nothing what happens——”
The jerk caused by the chaise coming to a stand before the inn cut his
words short. Clyne thrust out his head.
“Any news?” he asked eagerly. “Has anything been heard?”
Mr. Sutton, who had been on the watch for their arrival, came forward
to the chaise door. He answered Clyne, but his eyes, looking beyond his
patron, sought Henrietta’s in modest deprecation; much as the dog which
is not assured of its reception seeks, yet deprecates its master’s
glance.
“No,” he said, “none. I am sorry for it. Nadin has not yet returned,
nor Bishop, though we are expecting both.”
“Where’s Bishop?”
“He has gone with a party to Lady Holm. There’s an idea that the isles
were not thoroughly searched in the first place. But he should be back
immediately.”
A slight hardening of the lines of the mouth was Clyne’s only answer.
He helped Henrietta to alight, and was turning with her to enter the
house, when he remembered himself. He laid his hand on the chaplain’s
arm.
“This is the gentleman,” he said, “whom you have to thank for your
release, Henrietta.”
“I am sure,” she said, “that I am greatly obliged to him.” But her tone
was cold.
“He did everything,” Clyne said. “He left no stone unturned. Let me do
him the justice of saying that we two must share the blame of what has
happened, while the whole credit is his.”
“I am very much obliged to him,” she said again. And she bowed.
And that was all. That, and a look which told him that she resented his
interference, that she hated to be beholden to him, that she held him
linked for ever with her humiliation. He, and he alone, had stood by
her two days before, when all had been against her, and Captain Clyne
had been as flint to her. He, and he alone, had wrought out her
deliverance and reinstated her. And her thanks were a haughty movement
of the head, two sentences as cold as the wintry day, a smile as hard
as the icicles that still depended in the shade of the eaves. And when
she had spoken, she walked to the door without another glance—and every
step was on the poor man’s heart.
Mrs. Gilson had come down two steps to meet her. She had seen all.
“Well, you’re soon back, miss?” she said. “Some have the luck all one
way.”
“That cannot be said of me!” Henrietta retorted, smiling.
But her colour was high. She remembered how she had descended those
steps.
“No?” Mrs. Gilson responded. “When you bring the bad on yourself and
the good is just a gift?”
“A gift?”
“Ay! And one for which you’re not over grateful!” with all her wonted
grimness. “But that’s the way of the world! Grind as you will, miss,
it’s the lower mill-stone suffers, and the upper that cries out!
Still——”
Mr. Sutton heard no more; for Henrietta had passed with the landlady
into the house; and he turned himself about with a full heart and
walked away. He had done so much for her! He had risked his livelihood,
his patron, his position, to save her! He had paced this strand with
every fibre in him tingling with pity for her! Ay, and when all others
had put her out of their thoughts! And for return, she went laughing
into the house and paid no heed to him—to the poor parson.
True, he had expected little. But he had expected more than this. He
had not hoped for much; or it is possible that he had not resigned the
opportunity of bringing her back. But he had hoped for more than
this—for the tearful thanks of a pair of bright eyes, for the clasp of
a grateful hand, for a word or two that might remain in his memory
always.
And bitterness welled up in his heart, and at the first gate, at which
he could stand unseen, he let his face fall on his hands. He cursed the
barriers of caste, the cold pride of these aristocrats, even his own
pallid insignificance—since he had as hungry a heart as panted in the
breast of the handsomest dandy. He could not hate her; she was young
and thoughtless, and in spite of himself his heart made excuses for
her. But he hated the world, and the system, and the miserable
conventions that shackled him; ay, hated them as bitterly for the time
as the dark-faced gipsy girl whose eyes he found upon him, when at last
a step caused him to look up.
She grinned at him slyly, and he gave back the look with resentment. He
had met her once or twice in the lanes and about the inn, and marked
her for a rustic beauty of a savage type. Now he waited frowning for
her to pass. But she only smiled more insolently, and lifting her
voice, sang:
“But still she replied, sir,
I pray let me be!
If ever I love a man,
The master for me!”
A dull flush overspread his face. “Go your way!” he said.
“Ay, I’ll go!” Bess replied. “And so will she!”
In pin, out trout!
Three’s a meal and one’s nought!
“One’s nought! One’s nought!” she continued to carol.
And laughing ironically, she went up the road—not without looking back
once or twice to enjoy a surprise which was only exceeded by the
chaplain’s wrath. What did the girl know? And what was it to her? A
common gipsy drab such as she, how did she come to guess these things?
And where the joint lay at which to aim the keen shafts of her wit?