BISHOP CAUGHT NAPPING
“I will not do it! I will not do it!” Those had been Clyne’s last words
on the subject; uttered and repeated with a heat which proved that, in
coming to this decision, he fought against his own heart as much as
against her arguments. “I will not do it! But do you,” with something
of his former violence, “tell me where he is! Tell me at once, and I
will go and question him.”
“And I,” she had answered with spirit, “will not tell you.”
At that he had looked at her with the old sternness, but her eyes had
no longer fallen before his. And then he had been called away to follow
one of the hasty clues, the wild-goose scents which were reported from
hour to hour—by pedlars coming in from the dales, or by hazy parish
constables who took every stranger for a rogue. Twice he had turned in
his saddle, twice reined in his horse, before he passed out of sight;
and she had known that he wrestled with himself, that he was near, very
near, to giving way, and sacrificing her upon the altar of his child.
But he had gone on, and not returned. And though it had grieved her to
see how drawn and haggard was his face, how near to failing the wiry
strength of his frame, she had rejoiced on her own account. He might
say what he liked, forbid as he chose, it would go hard with her if she
could not find the opportunity she needed, if she, who had suffered all
along and in the esteem of all, did not make use of the means of
clearing herself that remained to her.
Courage at least should not be wanting; and she would be cunning, too.
Already she dreamed of a happy return with the child; and her cheeks
grew warm and her eyes soft as she conjured up the scene, and imagined
herself leading the boy to his father and receiving his thanks. Then he
would confess—more fully than he had yet confessed—how he had wronged
her, how far from her thoughts had been harm to the boy. And she—ah,
but she must first do her part. She must first do that which she had to
do.
So she went craftily about her task, counting up those whom she had to
fear and ticking them off. Before Clyne had left the house a mile
behind him she had learned where Nadin was, and a second officer whom
she suspected of watching her movements. They were abroad and she had
naught to fear from them. There remained Mr. Sutton and Bishop. For the
former, “Horrid man!” she thought in her ingratitude, “I suppose he
will look to be thanked every time I see him!” And she was confirmed in
this, when she marked him down. He was walking to and fro before the
door.
“I must go out at the back!” she concluded.
But there still remained the bluff but civil Bishop. She had little
doubt that he was the Cerberus left to guard her. And no doubt at all
when she learned from Modest Ann that he was taking his early dinner in
the coffee-room with the door wide open.
“Waiting to see if I go out,” she said.
“Well, miss,” Ann answered, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was!”
Henrietta looked at her very kindly.
“Don’t you think,” she asked slowly, “that you could somehow get rid of
him, Ann?”
The woman looked as much troubled as one of her hard features could
look.
“No, miss, I don’t think I could,” she said.
“You are afraid?” gently.
“I’m not afraid of him,” with some asperity. “Bless the man, no! I’m
not afraid of no man nowhere! But I am afraid of the missus?”
“Ah! And you don’t think that you could tell him that I wish to see him
upstairs? And then when he comes up and finds the room empty—that I
shall be down from my bedroom in five minutes?”
“It wouldn’t be true.”
“No,” softly. “Perhaps not.”
Modest Ann looked dreadfully perplexed.
“You’ll get me into trouble, miss,” she said. “I know you will.”
“Then I’ll get you out again,” the fair tempter retorted. “I will
indeed, Ann.”
“But if you get into trouble yourself, miss? What then?”
Henrietta turned with the air of a martyr to the window and looked out.
“I thought you liked me a little,” she murmured presently, and dried a
tear that was not there. “I thought you would do a small thing for me.”
The woman took her hand and kissed it softly.
“I will, miss, drat me if I don’t!” she said. “I’ll do what you wish,
come what may of it! So there.”
Henrietta turned to her, her face in a glow. “You dear, kind thing!”
she cried, “I’ll never forget it. You are the only one who is not
against me.”
Ann shook her head.
“I hope I’ll not be the one to repent it!” she muttered, with a last
spark of doubt.
“Indeed, indeed you won’t! But now”—naively—“shall I lock him in or
not?”
“In the room?”
“Yes.”
“Here, miss? Why, miss, he’d rouse the house!”
“Not if we tied up the bell-pull first!” she suggested.
But Modest Ann was aghast at the thought. “Lord, miss, he’d only have
to open the window and shout! And there’s the parson walking up and
down the road, and the fat’d be in the fire in two twos!”
“So it would,” Henrietta admitted reluctantly. “I see. So you must just
entice him here, and say I’ll be down from my bedroom in three minutes.
And I hope he’ll be patient. As for you, you’ll know no more than that
I asked you to fetch him, and said I should be with him at once.”
“Well, they can’t touch me for that,” Modest Ann said; and she agreed,
but with hesitation. “I don’t think he’ll be so simple,” she said.
“That’s a fact. He’ll not come up.”
But he did. He walked straight into the trap, and Henrietta, who was
waiting in ambush in the dark passage while he passed, sped downstairs,
and would have escaped by the back door without meeting a soul, if Mrs.
Gilson had not by bad luck been crossing the yard. The landlady caught
sight of the girl, and raising her voice cried to her to stop. For an
instant Henrietta hesitated. Then she thought it prudent to comply. She
returned slowly.
“Come, come, miss, this won’t do!” the landlady said tartly. “You’re
not going off like that all of a hurry! You bide a bit and consider
who’s bail for you.”
“Not you!” Henrietta retorted mutinously. And as this was true, for the
Gilsons’ bail had been discharged, the first hit was hers.
“Oh, so you’re saucy now, miss!” the landlady retorted. “Brag’s the
dog, is it?”
“No, but——”
“It’s so, it seems! Any way, you’ll please to tell me, young lady,
where you are going in such a hurry.”
But Henrietta was at bay. She knew that if she were delayed even two
minutes her chance was gone; for Bishop would be on her heels. So,
“That’s my business!” she answered. And determined to escape, even by
force, she turned about, light as a roe, tossed her head defiantly, and
was off through the gate in a twinkling.
Mrs. Gilson was left gaping. She was not of a figure to take up the
chase, for like many good housewives of her time, she seldom left her
own premises except to go to church. But she was none the less certain
that Henrietta ought to be followed. “There’s a fine trollop!” she
cried. “It won’t be long before she runs her head into harm! Where’s
that blockhead, Bishop?” And she bundled away to the coffee-room to
tell him that the girl was gone.
She arrived scant of breath—and he was not there. The coffee-room was
empty, and the landlady, knowing that he had stayed in the house on
purpose to keep an eye on Henrietta’s movements, swept out again,
fuming. In the passage she caught sight of Modest Ann and called her.
“Where’s that man, Bishop?” she asked.
Ann stared as if she had never heard the name.
“Bishop?” she repeated stolidly.
“What else did I say?”
“He’s with the young lady.”
“He’s nothing of the kind!” Mrs. Gilson retorted, her temper rising.
“Well, he went to her,” Ann returned. “He went——”
But Mrs. Gilson did not stay to hear. She had caught sight of Mr.
Sutton walking past the open door, and aware that a second now was
worth a minute by and by, she hurried out to him. “Your reverence!
Here!” she cried. And when he turned surprised by the address, “The
young lady’s gone!” she continued. “Slipped out at the back, and she’ll
be God knows where in two minutes! Do you follow, sir, and keep her in
sight or there’s no knowing what may happen!” And she pointed through
the house to indicate the nearest way.
Mr. Sutton’s face turned a dull red. But he did not move, nor make any
show of acting on the suggestion. Instead, “Miss Damer has gone out?”
he said slowly.
“To be sure!” the landlady cried, in a fume at the delay. “And if she
is not followed at once——”
“Where’s the officer?” he asked, interrupting her.
“Heaven knows, or I should not come to you!” Mrs. Gilson retorted. “Do
you go after her before she’s beyond catching!”
But Mr. Sutton shook his head with an obstinate look. “No,” he said.
“It’s not my business, ma’am. I’d like to oblige you after your
kindness yesterday, but I’ve made up my mind not to interfere with the
young lady. I followed her once,” he continued, in a lower tone and
with a conscious air—“and I’ve repented it!”
“You’ll repent it a deal more if you don’t follow her now!” the
landlady retorted. She was in a towering passion by this time. “You’ll
repent it finely if anything happens to her. That you will, my man!
Don’t you know that Captain Clyne left word that she wasn’t to be let
go out alone? Then go, man, after her, before it is too late. And don’t
be a sawny!”
“I shall not,” he answered firmly.
She saw then that he was not to be moved; and with a half-smothered
word, not of the politest, she turned short about to find Bishop;
though she was well aware that so much time had been wasted that the
thing was now desperate. Again she asked Ann, who had been listening to
the colloquy, where Bishop was.
“He went up to the young lady,” Ann answered.
“He did not, I tell you. For she is not up but out!”
“Perhaps he has followed her.”
“Perhaps you’re a liar!” Mrs. Gilson cried. And advancing on Ann with a
threatening gesture, “If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll shake you,
woman! Do you hear?”
Ann hesitated; when who should appear at the foot of the stairs but
Bishop himself, looking foolish.
“Where’s the young lady?” he asked. “Where’s your wits?” Mrs. Gilson
retorted. “She’s out by the back-door this five minutes. If you want to
catch her you’d best be quick!” And as with a face of consternation he
hurried through the house, “She didn’t turn Ambleside way!” she called
after him. “That’s all I know!”
This was something, but it left, as Bishop knew, two roads open. For,
besides the field-path which led up the hill and through the wood, and
so over the shoulder to Troutbeck, a farm lane turned short to the
right behind the out-buildings, and ran into the lower road towards
Calgarth and Bowness. Which had the girl taken? Bishop paused in doubt,
and gazed either way. She was not to be seen on the slope leading up to
the wood; but then, she was not to be seen on the other path. Still, he
espied something there which gave him hope. On the hillside the snow
had melted, but here and there on the north side of a wall, or in a
sheltered spot, it lay; and a little way along the farm-road was such a
patch extending across its width. Bishop hastened to the place, and a
glance told him that the girl had not gone that way. With rising hopes
he set off up the hill.
He was stout and short-winded, more at home in Cornhill than on real
hills, and he did not expect to gain upon her. But he felt sure that he
should find her track: and its direction where the fells were so
sparsely peopled must tell him much. He remembered that it was at the
upper end of the wood that he had surprised her on the occasion when
her agitation had led him to question her. He resolved to make as
quickly as possible for that point.
True enough, where the path entered the wood he came upon her footsteps
imprinted in the snow; and he pushed on, through the covert to the
upper end. Here, just within the wicket which opened on the road, lay
some drifted snow; and as much to recover his breath, as because he
thought it needful, he stopped to note the direction of her footprints.
Alas, the snow bore no trace of feet! No one, it was clear, had passed
through the gate that day.
This was a check, and he turned his back on the road, and mopped his
forehead with a handkerchief which he took from his hat. He gazed,
nonplussed, into the recesses of the wood through which he had passed.
The undergrowth, which was of oak—with here and there a clump of
hollies—still carried a screen of brown leaves, doomed to fall with the
spring, but sufficient in the present to mask a fugitive. Moreover, in
the damp bottom, where the bridge spanned the rivulet, a company might
have lain hidden; and above him, where the wood climbed the shoulder,
there were knolls and dells, and unprobed depths of yellow bracken,
that defied the eye. Between him and this background the brown trunks
stood at intervals, shot with the gold of the declining sun, or backed
by a cold patch of snow: and the scene had been beautiful, in its
russet livery of autumn blended with winter, if he had had eyes for it,
or for aught but the lurking figure he hoped to detect.
That figure, however, he could not see. And again he stooped, and
inspected the snow beside the gate. No, she had not passed, that was
certain; and baffled, and in a most unhappy mood, he raised himself and
listened. Above him a squirrel, scared by his approach, was angrily
clawing a branch; a robin, drawn by the presence of a man, alighted
near him, and hopped nearer. But no rustle of flying skirts, no sound
of snapping twigs or falling stones came to him. And, a city man by
training, and much at a loss here, he mopped his brow and swore. Every
second was precious, and he was losing minutes. He was losing minutes,
and learning nothing!
Was she hiding in the wood pending his departure? Or had she doubled
back the way she had come, and so escaped, laughing and contemptuous?
Or had she passed out by some gate unknown to him? Or climbed the
fence? Or was she even now meeting her man in some hiding-place among
the hollies, or in some fern-clad retreat out of sight and hearing?
Bishop could not tell. He was wholly at a loss. For a few seconds he
entertained the wild notion of beating, the wood for her; but he had
not taken a dozen steps before he set it aside, and went back to the
gate. Henrietta on the occasion when her bearing had confirmed his
suspicions had descended the road to the wood. He would go up the road.
And even as he thought of this, and laid his hand on the gate to open
it, he heard a footstep coming heavily down the road.
He went to meet the man; a tall, grinning rustic, who bore a sheep on
his shoulders with its fore and hind feet in either hand, so that it
looked like a gigantic ruff. At a sign from the officer he stopped, but
did not lower his burden.
“Meet anybody as you came down the road, my lad?” Bishop asked.
“Noa,” the man drawled.
“Where have you come from? Troutbeck?”
“Ay.”
“You haven’t met a young lady?”
“Noa! Met no soul, master!” the man answered, in the accent not only of
Westmoreland, but of truth.
“Not even a pretty girl?”
The man grinned more widely.
“Noa, not nobody,” he said.
And he went on down the road, but twice looked back, turning sheep and
all, to see what the stranger would be at.
Bishop stood for a few moments pondering the question, and then he
followed the man.
“If she is not up the road,” he argued, “it is ten to one that she
started up the hill to throw us off the scent. And she’s slipped down
herself towards Calgarth. It’s that way, too, she went to meet him at
night.”
And gradually quickening his steps as the case seemed clearer and his
hopes grew stronger he was soon out of sight.