A STRANGE BEDROOM
The men followed Bess’s lead, and as they supped never ceased to make
Henrietta the butt of odious jests and more odious gallantries; until,
now pale, now red, the girl was eager to welcome any issue from a
position so hateful. Once, stung beyond reason, she sprang up and would
have fled from them, with burning ears. But Bess seized her by the
shoulders and thrust her back violently into her seat; and, sobered by
the force used to her, and terrified lest the men should lay hands on
her, she resigned herself.
Strangely, the one of the four who said nothing, was the one whom she
feared the most. The gipsy lad did not speak. But his eyes never left
her, and something in their insolent freedom caused her more misery
than the others’ coarsest jests. He marked her blushes and pallor, and
her one uncontrollable revolt; and like the bird that flutters under
the spell of the serpent that hopes to devour it, she was conscious of
this watching. She was conscious of it to such an extent, that when
Bess cried, “Now it’s time you had your bedroom candlestick, peacock!”
she did not hear, but sat on as one deaf and blind; as the hare sits
fascinated by the snake’s eye.
The gipsy smiled. He understood. But Bess did not, and she tugged the
girl’s hair with sufficient roughness to break the spell.
“Up!” she cried. “Up when I speak! Don’t dream you’re a fine lady any
longer! Wait till I get your bed candlestick—eh, lads?—and you’ll be
wiser to-morrow, and tamer, too. See, my lass, that’s for you!” And she
held up a small dark-lanthorn, and opening it, kindled the wick from
one of the candles. “Now come! And do you—no, not you!” to the gipsy,
who had stepped forward—“you!” to Giles, “come with me and see her
safely into her bedroom!”
Lunt growled a word or two.
“Stow it!” Bess answered, as she darkened the lanthorn. “It’s to be as
I say. Here, give me your wrist, girl.”
But at that, fear gripped Henrietta. She hung back with a white face.
“What are you going to do with me?” she cried. “What are you——”
“In two minutes you’ll see!” Bess retorted. And with a quick movement
she grasped the girl’s arm. “And be as wise as I am. Lay hold of her
other arm,” she continued to Giles. “It’s no use to struggle, my
lady!—and if she cries out down her at once. You hear, do you?” she
continued, addressing Henrietta, who with terror found herself as
helpless as a doe in the hound’s fangs. “Then mum, and it’ll be the
better for you. Here, do you take the lanthorn,” she went on, handing
it to Giles, “and I’ll carry the victuals. You can hold her?”
“I’ll break her wrist if she budges,” the man replied. “But, after all,
isn’t she as well here?”
“No, she’s not!” Bess answered, with decision. “Do you”—to Lunt—“open
the yard door for us, and stand by till we come in again. No, not you,”
to the gipsy, who had again stepped forward. “You’re too ready, my lad,
and I don’t trust you.”
Fortunately for Henrietta, the sight of the plate of food relieved her
of her worst fears. She was not to be done to death, but in all
probability to be consigned to the hiding place which held the boy. And
though the prospect was not cheerful, and Bess’s manner was cruel and
menacing, Henrietta felt that if this were the worst she could face it.
She could bear even what the child bore, and by sharing its hardships
she might do something to comfort it. Always, too, there was the chance
of escape; and from the place, be it out-house or stable, in which they
held the boy confined, escape must be more feasible than from the
house, with its bolts and bars.
She had time to make these calculations between the kitchen and the
yard door; through which they half-led, half-pushed her into the night.
With all a woman’s natural timidity on finding herself held and
helpless in the dark, she had to put restraint upon herself not to try
to break loose, not to scream. But she conquered herself and let them
lead her, unresisting and as one blindfold, where they pleased.
It was clear that they knew the place well. For, though the darkness in
the depths of this bowl in the hills was absolute, they did not unmask
the lanthorn; but moved confidently for a distance of some fifty yards.
The dog, kenneled near, had given tongue as they left the house. But
once only. And when they paused, all was so still in the frosty mist
that wrapped them about and clutched the throat, that Henrietta’s ear
caught the trickle of water near at hand.
“Where are we?” she muttered. “Where are we?” She hung back in sudden,
uncontrollable alarm.
“Mum, fool!” Bess hissed in her ear. “Be still, or it will be the worse
with you. Have you,” she continued, in the same low tone, “undone the
door, lad?”
For answer a wooden door groaned on its hinges.
“Right!” Bess murmured. “Bend your head, girl!”
Henrietta obeyed, and pushed forward by an unseen hand, she advanced
three paces, and felt a warmer air salute her cheek. The door groaned
again; she heard a wooden bolt thrust home. Bess let her hand go and
unmasked the lanthorn.
Henrietta shivered. She was in a covered well-head, whence the water,
after filling a sunken caldron, about which the moss hung in dark,
snaky wreaths, escaped under the wooden door. Some yeoman of bygone
days had come to the help of nature, and after enlarging a natural
cavity had enclosed it, to protect the water from pollution. The place
was so small that it no more than held the three who stood in it, nor
all of them dry-shod. And Henrietta’s heart sank indeed before the
possibility of being left to pass the night in this dank cave.
Bess’s next movement freed her from this fear. The girl turned the
light on the rough wall, and seizing an innocent-looking wooden peg,
which projected from it, pushed the implement upwards. A piece of the
wall, of the shape and size of a large oven door, fell downwards and
outwards, as the tail of a cart falls. It revealed a second cavity of
which the floor stood a couple of feet higher than the ground on which
they were. It was very like a spacious bread-oven, though something
higher and longer; apparently it had been made in the likeness of one.
But Henrietta did not think of this, or of its shape or its purpose.
For the same light, a dim, smoky lamp burning at the far end of the
place, which revealed its general aspect, disclosed a bundle of straw
and a forlorn little form.
She gasped. For that any human creature, much more a child, should be
confined in such a place, buried in the bowels of the earth, seemed so
monstrous, so shocking, that she could not believe it!
“Oh!” she cried, forgetting for the moment her own position and her own
fate, forgetting everything in her horror and pity. “You have not left
the child here! And alone! For shame! For shame!” she continued,
turning on them in the heat of her indignation and fearing them no more
than a hunter fears a harmless snake—which excites disgust, but not
terror. “What do you think will happen to you?”
For a moment, strange to say, her indignation cowed them. For a moment
they saw the thing as she saw it; they were daunted. Then Bess sneered:
“You don’t like the place?”
“For that child?”
“For yourself?”
She was burning with indignation, and for answer she climbed into the
place, and went on her hands and knees to the child’s side. She bent
over it, and listened to its breathing.
“Is’t asleep?” Bess asked. There was a ring of anxiety in her tone. And
when Henrietta did not answer, “It’s not dead?” she muttered.
“Dead? No,” Henrietta replied, with a shudder. “But it’s—it’s——”
“What?”
“It breathes, but—but——” She drew its head on to her shoulder and
peered more closely into the small white face. “It breathes, but—but
what is the matter with it? What have you done to it?”—glancing at them
suspiciously. For the boy, after returning her look with lack-lustre
eyes, had averted his face from the light and from hers.
“It’s had a dose,” Bess answered roughly—she had had her moment of
alarm. “In an hour or two it will awake. Then you can feed it. Here’s
the porridge. And there’s milk. It was fresh this morning and must be
fresh enough now. Hang the brat, I’m sure it has been trouble enough.
Now you can nurse it, my lass, and I wish you joy of it, and a gay
good-night! And before morning you’ll know what it costs to rob Bess
Hinkson of her lad!”
“But the child will die!” Henrietta cried, rising to her feet—she could
stand in the place, but not quite erect. “Stay! Stay! At least take——”
“What?”
“Take the child in! And warm and feed it! Oh, I beg you take it!”
Henrietta pleaded. “It will die here! It is cold now! I believe it is
dying now!”
“Dying, your grand-dam!” the girl retorted, scornfully. “But if we take
it, will you stay?”
“I will!” Henrietta answered. “I will!”
“So you will! And the child, too!” Bess retorted. And she slammed-to
the door. But again, while Henrietta, appalled by her position, still
stared at the place, the shutter fell, and Bess thrust in her dark,
handsome face. “See here!” she said. “If you begin to scream and shout,
it will be the worse for you, and do you remember that! I shall not
come, but I shall send Saul. He’s took a fancy to you, and will find a
way of silencing you, I’ll bet!” with an unpleasant smile. “So now you
know! And if you want his company you’ll shout!”
She slammed the shutter to again with that, and Henrietta heard the
bolt fall into its place.
The girl stood for a moment, staring and benumbed. But presently her
eyes, which at first travelled wildly round, grew more sober. They fell
on her tiny fellow-prisoner, and, resting on that white, unconscious
cheek, on those baby hands clenched in some bygone paroxysm, they
filled slowly with tears.
“I will think of the child! I will think of the child!” she murmured.
And, crouching down, she hugged it to her with a sensation of relief,
almost of happiness. “I thank God I came! I thank God I am here to
protect it!”
And resolutely averting her eyes from the low roof and oven-like walls,
that, when she dwelt too long on them, seemed, like the famous dungeon
of Poe, to contract about her and choke her, she devoted herself to the
child; and as she grew scared by its prolonged torpor, she strove to
rouse it. At first her efforts were vain. But she persisted in them.
For the vision which she had had in the cell at Kendal—of the child
holding out pleading hands to her—rose to her memory. She was certain
that at that moment the child had been crying for aid. And surely not
for nothing, not without purpose, had the cry come to her ears who now
by so strange a fate was brought to the boy’s side.
At intervals she felt almost happy in this assurance; as she pressed
the child to her, and watched by the dim, yellow light its slow
recovery from the drug. Her present danger, her present straits, her
position in this underground place, which would have sent some mad,
were forgotten. And the past and the future filled her thoughts; and
Anthony Clyne. Phrases of condemnation and contempt which _he_ had used
to her recurred, as she nursed his child; and she rejoiced to think
that he must unsay them! The bruises which he had inflicted still
discoloured her wrist, and moved strange feelings in her, when her eyes
fell upon them. But he would repent of his violence soon! Very soon,
very soon, and how completely! The thought was sweet to her!
She was in peril, and a week before she had been free as air. But then
she had been without any prospect of reinstatement, any hope of
regaining the world’s respect, any chance of wiping out the
consequences of her mad and foolish act. Now, if she lived, and escaped
from this strait, he at least must thank her, he at least must respect
her. And she was sure, yes, she dared to tell herself, blushing, that
if he respected her, he would know how to make the world also respect
her.
But then again she trembled. For there was a darker side. She was in
the power of these wretches; and the worst—the thought paled her
cheek—might happen! She held the child more closely to her, and rocked
it to and fro in earnest prayer. The worst! Yes, the worst might
happen. But then again she fell back on the reflection that _he_ was
searching for them, and if any could find them he would. He was
searching for them, she was sure, as strenuously, and perhaps with more
vengeful purpose than when he had sought the child alone! By this time,
doubtless, she was missed, and he had raised the country, flung wide
the alarm, set a score moving, fired the dalesmen from Bowness to
Ambleside. Yes, for certain they were searching for her. And they must
know, careful as she had been to hide her trail, that she could not
have travelled far; and the scope of the search, therefore, would be
narrow, and the scrutiny close. They could hardly fail, she thought, to
visit the farm in the hollow; its sequestered and lonely position must
invite inquiry. And if they entered, a single glance at the disordered
kitchen would inform the searchers that something was amiss.
So far Henrietta’s thoughts, as she clasped the boy to her and strove
to warm him to life against her own body, ran in a current chequered
but more or less hopeful. But again the supposition would force itself
upon her—the men were desperate, and the woman was moved by a strange
hatred of her. What if they fled, and left no sign? What if they
escaped, and left no word of her? The thought was torture! She could
not endure it. She put the child down, and rising to her knees, she
covered her eyes with her hands. To be buried here underground! To die
of hunger and thirst in this bricked vault, as far from hope and help,
from the voices and eyes of men and the blessed light of the sun, as if
they had laid her alive in her coffin!
Oh, it was horrible! She could not bear it; she could not bear to think
of it. She sprang, forgetting herself, to her feet, and the blow which
the roof dealt her, though her thick hair saved her from injury,
intensified the feeling. She was buried! Yes, she was buried alive! The
roof seemed to be sinking upon her. These brick walls so cunningly
arched, and narrowing a t either end, as the ends of a coffin narrow,
were the walls of her tomb! Those faint lines of mortar which seclusion
from the elements had preserved in their freshness, presently she would
attack them with her nails in the frenzy of her despair. She glared
about her. The weight, the mass of the hill above, seemed to press upon
her. The air seemed to fail her. Was there no way, no way of escape
from this living tomb—this grave under the tons and tons and tons of
rock and earth?
And then the child—perhaps she had put him from her roughly, and the
movement had roused him—whimpered. And she shook herself free—thank
God—free from the hideous dream that had obsessed her. She remembered
that the men were not yet fled, nor was she abandoned. She was leaping,
thank Heaven, far above the facts. In a passion of relief she knelt
beside the child, and rained kisses on him, and swore to him, as he
panted with terror in her arms, that he need not fear, that he was safe
now, and she was beside him to take care of him! And that all would be
well if he would not cry. All would be well. For she bethought herself
that the child must not know how things stood. Fear and suffering he
might know if the worst came; but not the fear, not the mental torture
which she had known for a few moments, and which in so short a time had
driven her almost beside herself.
The boy’s faculties were still benumbed by the hardships which he had
undergone; perhaps a little by the narcotic he had taken. And though he
had seen Henrietta at least a dozen times in the old life, he could not
remember her. Nevertheless she contrived to satisfy him that she was a
friend, that she meant him well, that she would protect him. And little
by little, in spite of the surroundings which drew the child’s eyes
again and again in terror to the dimly-lit vaulting, on which the
shadow of the girl’s figure bulked large, his alarm subsided. His heart
beat less painfully, and his eyes lost in a degree the strained and
pitiful look which had become habitual. But his little limbs still
started if the light flickered, or the oil sputtered; and it was long
before, partly by gentle suasion, partly by caresses, she succeeded in
inducing the child—nauseated as he was by the drug—to take food. That
done, though she still believed him to be in a critical state, and
dreadfully weak, she was better satisfied. And soon, soothed by her
firm embrace and confident words, her charge fell into a troubled
sleep.