THE SMUGGLERS’ OVEN
Henrietta crouched beside the lamp, lulling the child from time to time
with a murmured word. She held the boy, whom she had come to save,
tight in her arms; and the thought that she held him was bliss to her,
though poisoned bliss. Whatever happened he would learn that she had
reached the child. He would know—even if the worst came—what she had
done for him. But the worst must not come. Were she once in the open
under the stars, how quickly could she flee down the road with this
light burden in her arms—down the road until she saw the star-sprinkled
lake spread below her! In twenty minutes, were she outside, she might
be safe. In twenty minutes, only twenty minutes, she might place the
child in his arms, she might read the joy in his eyes, and hear
words—ah, so unlike those which she had heard from him!
There were only two doors between herself and freedom. Her heart beat
at the thought. In twenty minutes how different it might be with her—in
twenty minutes, were she at liberty!
She must wait until the child was sound asleep. Then when she could lay
him down she would examine the place. The purity of the air proved that
there was either a secret inlet for the purpose of ventilation, or that
the door which shut off their prison from the well-head fitted ill and
loosely. In the latter case it was possible that her strength might
avail to force the door and make escape possible. They might not have
given her credit for the vigour which she felt that she had it in her
to show if the opportunity offered itself.
In the meantime she scrutinised, as she sat, every foot of the walls,
without discovering anything to encourage hope or point to a second
exit. The light of the dim lamp revealed only smooth courses of bricks,
so near her eyes, so low upon her head, so bewildering in their
regularity and number, that they appalled her the more the longer she
gazed on them. It was to seek relief that she rose at last, and laying
the sleeping child aside, went to the door and examined it.
Alas! it presented to the eye only solid wood, overlapping the aperture
which it covered, and revealing in consequence neither hinges nor
fastening. She set her shoulder against it, and thrust with all her
might. But it neither bent nor moved, and in despair she left it, and
stooping low worked her way round the walls. Her closest scrutiny
revealed nothing; not a slit as wide as her slenderest finger, not a
peg, nor a boss, nor anything that promised exit. She returned to the
door, and made another and more desperate attempt to burst it. But her
strength was unequal to the task, and to avoid a return of the old
panic, which threatened to overcome her, she dropped down beside the
child, and took him again in her arms, feeling that in the appeal which
the boy’s helplessness made to her she had her best shield against such
terrors.
The next moment, with a flicker or two, the light went out. She was in
complete darkness.
She fought with herself and with the impulse to shriek; and she
conquered. She drew a deep breath as she sat, and with the unconscious
child in her arms, stared motionless before her.
“They will come back,” she murmured steadfastly; “they will come back!
They will come back! And in the meantime I must be brave for the
child’s sake. I have only to wait! And they will come back!”
Nevertheless, it was hard to wait. It was hard not to let her thoughts
run on the things which might prevent their return. They might be put
to flight, they might be discovered and killed, they might be taken and
refuse to say where she was. And then? Then?
But for the child’s sake she must not, she would not, think of that.
She must dwell, instead, on the shortness of the time that had elapsed
since they left her. She could not guess what the hour was, but she
judged that it was something after midnight now, and that half of the
dark hours were gone. Even so, she had long to wait before she could
expect to be visited. She must have patience, therefore. Above all, she
must not think of the mountain of earth above her, of the two thick
doors that shut her off from the living world, of the vault that almost
touched her head as she sat. For when she did the air seemed to fail
her, and the grip of frenzied terror came near to raising her to her
feet. Once on her feet and in that terror’s grasp, she knew that she
would rave and shriek, and beat on the walls—and go mad!
But she would not think of these things. She would sit quite still and
hold the child more tightly to her, and be sensible. And be sensible!
Above all, be sensible!
She thought of many things as she sat holding herself as it were; of
her old home and her old life, the home and the life that seemed so far
away, though no more than a few weeks divided her from them. But more
particularly she thought of her folly and of the events of the last
month; and of the child and of the child’s father, and—with a
shudder—of Walterson. How silly, how unutterably silly, she had been!
And what stuff, what fustian she had mistaken for heroism; while,
through all, the quiet restraint of the true master of men had been
under her eyes.
Not that all the fault had been hers. She was sure of that even now.
Captain Clyne had known her as little as she had known him, and had
misjudged her as largely. That he might know her better was her main
desire now; and that he might know it, whatever the issue, she had an
inspiration. She took from her neck the gold clasp which had aroused
old Hinkson’s greed, and she fastened it securely inside the child’s
dress. If the child were rescued, the presence of the brooch would
prove that she had succeeded in her quest, and been with the boy.
After that she dozed off, and presently, strange to say, she slept.
Fortunately, the child also was worn out; and the two slept as soundly
in the grim silence of the buried vault, with the load of earth above
them and the water trickling from the well-hole beside them, as in the
softest bed. They slept long, yet when Henrietta at last awoke it was
happily to immediate consciousness of the position and of the need of
coolness. The boy had been first to rouse himself and was crying for a
light, and for something to quench his thirst. A little milk remained
in the can, and with infinite precaution she groped for the vessel and
found it. The milk was sour, but the boy lapped it eagerly, and
Henrietta wetted her own lips, for she, too, was parched with thirst.
She could have drunk ten times as much with pleasure, but she denied
herself, and set the rest in a safe place. She did not know how long
she had slept, and the fear that they might be left to meet a dreadful
death would lift its head, hard as she strove to trample on it.
She gave the child a few spoonfuls of porridge and encouraged him to
crawl about in the darkness. But after some restless, querulous
moanings he slept again, and Henrietta was left to her thoughts, which
continually grew more uneasy. She was hungry; and that seemed to prove
that the morning was come and gone. If this were so were they to remain
there all day? And if all day, all night? And all next day? And if so,
if they were not discovered by next day, why not—forever?
Again she had to struggle against the hysterical terror that gripped
and choked her. And resist it without action she could not. She rose,
and in the dark felt her way to the hatchway by which she had entered.
Again she passed her fingers down the smooth edges where it met the
brickwork. She sought something, some bolt, some peg, some
hinge—anything that, if it did not lead to freedom, might hold her
thoughts and give her occupation. But there was nothing! And when she
had set her ear against the thick wood, still there was nothing. She
turned from it, and went slowly and doggedly round the prison on her
knees, feeling the brickwork here and there, and in very dearth of
hope, searching with her fingers for that which had baffled her eyes.
Round, and round again; with just a pause to listen and a stifled sob.
But in vain. All, as she might have known, was toil in vain. All was
futile, hopeless. And then the child awoke, and she had to take him up
and soothe him and give him the last of the milk and the porridge. He
seemed a little stronger and better. But she—she was growing
frightened—horribly frightened. She must have been hours in that place;
and she was very near to that breakdown, which she had kept at bay so
long.
For she had no more food. And, worse, with the sound of water almost in
her ears, with the knowledge that it ran no more than a few feet from
her in a clear and limpid stream, she had nothing more with which she
could quench the boy’s thirst or her own. And she had no light. That
frantic struggle to free herself, that strength of despair which might,
however improbably, have availed her, were and must be futile for her,
fettered and maimed by a darkness that could be felt. She drew the
child nearer and hugged him to her. He was her talisman, her all, the
tie that bound her to sanity, the being outside herself for whom she
was bound to think and plan and be cool.
She succeeded—for the moment. But as she sat, dozing a little at
intervals, with the child pressed closely to her, she fell from time to
time into fits of trembling. And she prayed for light—only for light!
And then again for some sound, some change in the cold, dead stillness
that made her seem like a thing apart, aloof, removed from other
things. And she was very thirsty. She knew that presently the child
would grow thirsty again. And she would have nothing to give him.
The thought was torture, and she seemed to have borne it an age
already; supported by the fear of rousing the boy and hastening the
moment she dreaded. She would have broken down, she must have broken
down, but for one thought; that, long as the hours seemed to her, and
far distant as the moment of her entrance appeared, she might be a
great way out in her reckoning of time. She might not have been shut up
there so very long. The wretches who had put her there might not have
fled. They might not have abandoned her. If she knew all she might be
rid in an instant of her fears. All the time she might be torturing
herself for nothing.
She clung passionately to that thought and to the child. But the
prolonged uncertainty, the suspense, the waiting, tried her to the
utmost of her endurance. Her ears ached with the pain of listening; her
senses hungered for the sound of the footstep on which all depended.
Would that sound never come? Once or twice she fancied that she heard
it; and mocked by hope she stilled the very beating of her heart, that
she might hear more keenly. But nothing followed, nothing. Nothing
happened, and her heart sickened.
“Presently,” she thought, “I shall begin to see things. I shall grow
weak and fancy things. The horror of being buried alive will master me,
and I shall shriek and shout and go mad. But that shall not be until
the child’s trouble is over—God helping me!”
And then, dazzling her with its brightness, a sudden thought flashed
through her brain. Fool! Fool! She had succumbed in despair when a cry
might release her! She had laid herself down to die, when she had but
to lift up her voice, and the odds were that she would be heard. Ay,
and be freed! For had not the girl threatened her with the man’s coarse
gallantries if she screamed? And to what purpose, if she were buried so
deep that her complaints could not be heard?
The thought lifted a weight from her. It revived her hopes, almost her
confidence. Immediately a current of vigour and courage coursed through
her veins. But she did not shout at once. The child was asleep; she
would await his awakening, and in the meantime she would listen
diligently. For if she could be heard by those who approached the
place, it was possible that she could hear them.
She had barely conceived the thought, when the thing for which she had
waited so long happened. The silence was broken. A sound struck her
ear. A grating noise followed. Then a shaft of light, so faint that
only eyes long used to utter darkness could detect it, darted in and
lay across the brickwork of the vault. In a twinkling she was on her
knees and scrambling with the child in her arms towards the hatch. She
had reached it and was touching it, when the bolts that held up the
door slid clear, and with a sharp report the hatch fell. A burst of
light poured in and blinded her. But what was sight to her? She, who
had borne up against fear so bravely had now only one thought, only one
idea in her mind—to escape from the vault. She tumbled out recklessly,
fell against something, and only through the support of an unseen hand
kept on her feet as she alighted in the well-head.
A man whom her haste had pushed aside, slapped her on the shoulder.
“Lord, you’re in a hurry!” he said. “You’ve had enough of bed for
once!”
“So would you,” came the answer—in Bess’s voice—“if you’d had
twenty-four hours of it, my lad. All the same, she’ll have to go back.”
Trembling and dazed, Henrietta peered from one to the other. Mistress
of herself two minutes before, she was now on the verge of hysteria,
and controlled herself with an effort.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh! thank God you’ve come! Thank God you’ve come! I
thought you had left me.”
She was thankful—oh, she was thankful; though these were no rescuers,
but the two who had consigned her to that horrible place. Bess raised
the lanthorn so that its light fell on the girl’s haggard, twitching
face.
“We could not come before,” she said, with something like pity in her
tone. “That’s all.”
“All!” Henrietta gasped. “All! Oh, I thought you had left me! I thought
you had left me!”
Bess considered her, and there was beyond doubt something like
softening in the girl’s dark face. But her tone remained ironical.
“You didn’t,” she said, “much fancy your bedroom, I guess?”
Henrietta’s teeth chattered.
“Oh, God forgive you!” she cried. “I thought you had left me! I thought
you’d left me!”
“It was your own folks’ fault,” Bess retorted. “They’ve never had their
eyes off the blessed house, one or another of them, from dawn to dark!
We could not come. But now here’s food, and plenty!” raising the light.
“How’s the child?”
“Bad! Bad!” Henrietta muttered.
She was coming to her senses. She was beginning to understand the
position; to comprehend that no rescuers were here, no search party had
found her; and that—and that—had not one of them dropped a word about
her going back? Going back meant going back to that—place! With a
sudden gesture she thrust the food from her.
“Ain’t you going to eat?” Bess asked, staring. “I thought you’d be
famished.”
“Not here! Not here!” she answered violently.
“Oh, nonsense!” the other rejoined. “Don’t be a fool! You’re clemmed,
I’ll be bound. Eat while you can.”
But, “Not here! Not here!” Henrietta replied. And she thrust the food
away.
The man interposed.
“Stow it!” he said, in a threatening tone. “You eat while you can and
where you can!”
But she was desperate.
“I’ll not eat here!” she cried. “I’ll not eat here! And I’ll not go
back!” her voice rising. “I will die before I will go back. Do you
hear?” with the fierceness of a wild creature at bay. “I do not care
what you do! And the child is dying. Another night—but I’ll not suffer
it! And if you lay a finger on me”—repelling Bess, who had made a feint
of seizing her—“I will scream until I am heard! Ay, I will!” she
repeated, her eyes sparkling. “But take me to the house and I will go
quietly! I will go quietly!”
It was plain that she was almost beside herself, and that fear of the
place in which she had passed so many hours had driven out all other
fear. The two, who had not left her alone so long without misgiving,
looked at one another and hesitated. They might overpower her. But the
place was so closely watched that a single shriek might be heard; then
they would be taken red-handed. Nor did Bess at least wish to use
force. The position, and her views, were changed. All day curious eyes
had been fixed on the house, and inquisitive people had started up
where they were least expected. Bess’s folly in bringing this hornets’
nest about their ears had shaken her influence with the men; and the
day had been one long exchange of savage recriminations. She owned to
herself that she had done a foolish thing; that she had let her spite
carry her too far. And in secret she was beginning to think how she
could clear herself.
She did not despair of this; for she was crafty and of a good courage.
She did not even think it would be hard; but she must, as a _sine quâ
non_, conciliate the girl whom she had wronged. Unluckily she now saw
that she could not conciliate her without taking her to the house. And
she could not with safety take her to the house. The men were irritated
by the peril which she had brought upon them; they were ferocious and
out of hand; and terribly suspicious to boot. They blamed her, Bess,
for all: they had threatened her. And if she was not safe among them,
she was quite sure that Henrietta would not be safe.
There was an alternative. She might let the girl go there and then. And
she would have done this, but she could not do it without Giles’s
consent; and she dared not propose it to him. He was wanted for other
offences, and the safe return of Henrietta and the child would not
clear him. He had looked on the child, and now looked on the girl, as
pawns in his game, a _quid pro quo_ with which—if he were taken while
they remained in his friends’ hands—he might buy his pardon. Bess,
therefore, dared not propose to free Henrietta: and what was she to do
if the girl was so foolish as to refuse to go back to the place where
she was safe?
“Look here,” she said at last. “You’re safer here than in the house, if
you will only take my word for it.”
But there is no arguing with fear.
“I will not!” Henrietta persisted, with passion. “I will not! Take me
out of this! Take me out! The child will die here, and I shall go
mad!—mad!”
“You’re pretty mad now,” the man retorted. But that said, he met Bess’s
eyes and nodded reluctantly. “Well,” he said, “it’s her own lookout.
But I think she’ll repent it.”
“Will you go quiet?” Bess asked.
“Yes, yes!”
“And you’ll not cry out? Nor try to break away?”
“I will not! I will not indeed!”
“You swear it?”
“I do.”
“And by G—d,” the man interposed bluntly, “she’d better keep to it.”
“Very well,” Bess said. “You have it your own way. But I tell you
truly, I put you in here for the best. And perhaps you’ll know it
before you’re an hour older. However, all’s said, and it’s your own
doing.”
“Why don’t you let me go?” Henrietta panted. “Let me go, and let me
take the child!”
“Stow it!” the man cried, cutting her short. “It’s likely, when we’re
as like as not to pay dear for taking you. Do you shut your
talking-trap!”
“She’ll be quiet,” Bess said, more gently. “So douse the glim, lad. And
do you give me the child,” to Henrietta.
But she cried, “No! No!” and held it more closely to her.
“Very good! Then take my hand—you don’t know the way. And not a
whisper, mind! Slip the bolt, Giles! And, mum, all!”