Weyman Stanley John
Starvecrow Farm

CHAPTER XX
PROOF POSITIVE

Anthony Clyne had made no moan, but, both in his pride and his better feelings, he had suffered more than the world thought through Henrietta's elopement. He was not in love with the girl whom he had chosen for his second wife and the mother of his motherless child. But no man likes to be jilted. No man, even the man least in love, can bear with indifference or without mortification the slur which the woman's desertion casts on him. At best there are invitations to be cancelled, and servants to be informed, and plans to be altered; the condolences of some and the smiles of others are to be faced. And many troubles and much bitterness. The very boy, the apple of his eye and the core of his heart, had to be told-something.

And Anthony Clyne was proud. No man in Lancashire set more by his birth and station, or had a stronger sense of his personal dignity; so that in doing all these things he suffered. He suffered much. Nor did it end with that. His own world knew him, and took care not to provoke him by a tactless word or an inquisitive question. But the operatives in his neighbourhood, who hated him and feared him, and thanked God for aught that hurt him, gibed him openly. Taunts and jests were flung after him in the streets of Manchester; and men whose sweethearts had been flung down or roughly used on the day of Peterloo inquired after his sweetheart as he passed before the mills.

But he made no sign. And no one dreamed that the suffering went farther than the man's pride, or touched his heart. Yet it did. Not that he loved the girl; but because she was of his race, and because her own branch of the family cast her off, and because the man with whom she had fled could do nothing to protect her from the consequences of her folly. For these reasons-and a little because of a secret nobility in his own character-he suffered vicariously; he felt himself responsible for her. And the responsibility seemed more heavy after he had seen her; after he had borne away from Windermere the picture of the girl left pale and proud and lonely by the lake side.

For her figure haunted him. It rose before him in the most troublesome fashion and at the most improper times; at sessions when he sat among his peers, or at his dinner-table in the middle of a tirade against the radicals and Cobbett. It touched him in the least expected and most tender points; awaking the strongest doubts of himself, and his conduct, and his wisdom that he had ever entertained. It barbed the dart of "It might have been" with the rankling suspicion that he had himself to thank for failure. And where at first he had said in his haste that she deserved two dozen, he now remembered her defence, and added gloomily, "Or I! Or I!" The thought of her fate-as of a thing for which he was responsible-thrust itself upon him in season and out of season. He could not put her out of his mind, he could not refrain from dwelling on her. And thinking in this way he grew every day less content with the scheme of life which he had framed for her in his first contempt for her. The notion of her union with Mr. Sutton, good, worthy man as he deemed the chaplain, now jarred on him unpleasantly. And more and more the scheme showed itself in another light than that in which he had first viewed it.

Such was his state of mind, unsettled if not unhappy, and harassed if not remorseful, when a second thunderclap burst above his head, and in a moment destroyed even the memory of these minor troubles. He loved his child with the love of the proud and lonely man who loves more jealously where others pity, and clings more closely where others look askance. A fig for their pity! he cried in his heart. He would so rear his child, he would so cherish him, he would so foster his mind, that in spite of bodily defect this latest of the Clynes should be also the greatest. And while he foresaw this future in the child and loved him for the hope, he loved him immeasurably more for his weakness, his helplessness, his frailty in the present. All that was strong in the man of firm will and stiff prejudice went out to the child in a passionate yearning to protect it; to shield it from unfriendly looks, even from pity; to cover it from the storms of the world and of life.

Personally a brave man Clyne feared nothing for himself. The hatred in which he was held by a certain class came to his ears from time to time in threatening murmurs, but though those who knew best were loudest in warning, he paid no heed. He continued to do what he held to be his duty. Yet if anything had had power to turn him from his path it had been fear on his son's account; it had been the very, very small share which the boy must take in his peril. And so, at the first hint he had removed the child from the zone of trouble, and sent him to a place which he fancied safe; a place which the boy loved, and in the quiet of which health as well as safety might be gained. If the name of Clyne was hated where spindles whirled and shuttles flew, and men lived their lives under a pall of black smoke, it was loved in Cartmel by farmer and shepherd alike; and not less by the rude charcoal-burners who plied their craft in the depths of the woods about Staveley and Broughton in Furness.

On that side he thought himself secure. And so the blow fell with all the force of the unexpected. The summons of the panic-stricken servants found him in his bed; and it was a man who hardly contained himself, who hardly contained his fury and his threats, who without breaking his fast rode north. It was a hard-faced, stern man who crossed the sands at Cartmel at great risk-but he had known them all his life-and won at Carter's Green the first spark of comfort and hope which he had had since rising. Nadin was before him. Nadin was in pursuit, – Nadin, by whom all that was Tory in Lancashire swore. Surely an accident so opportune, a stroke of mercy and providence so unlikely-for the odds against the officer's presence were immense-could not be unmeant, could not be for nothing! It seemed, it must be of good augury! But when Clyne reached his house in Cartmel, and the terrified nurse who knew the depth of his love for the boy grovelled before him, the household had no added hope to give him, no news or clue. And he could but go forward. His horse was spent, but they brought him a tenant's colt, and after eating a few mouthfuls he pressed on up the lake side towards Bowness, attended by a handful of farmers' sons who had not followed on the first alarm.

Even now, hours after the awakening, and when any moment might end his suspense, any turn in the road bring him face to face with the issue-good or bad, joy or sorrow-he dared not think of the child. He dared not let his mind run on its fear or its suffering, its terrors in the villains' hands, or the hardships which its helplessness might bring upon it. To do so were to try his self-control too far. And so he thought the more of the men, the more of vengeance, the more of the hour which would see him face to face with them, and see them face to face with punishment. He rejoiced to think that abduction was one of the two hundred crimes which were punishable with death: and he swore that if he devoted his life to the capture of these wretches they should be taken. And when taken, when they had been dealt with by judge and jury, they should be hanged without benefit of clergy. There should be no talk of respite. His services to the party had earned so much as that-even in these days when radicals were listened to over much, and fanatics like Wolseley and Burdett flung their wealth into the wrong scale.

At Bowness there was no news except a word from Nadin bidding him ride on. And without alighting he pressed on, sternly silent, but with eyes that tirelessly searched the bleak, bare fells for some movement, some hint of flight or chase. He topped the hill beyond Bowness, and drew rein an instant to scan the islets set here and there on the sullen water. Then, after marking carefully the three or four boats which were afloat, he trotted down through Calgarth woods. And on turning the corner that revealed the long gabled house at the Low Wood landing he had a gleam of hope. Here at last was something, some stir, some adequate movement. In the road were a number of men, twenty or thirty, on foot or horseback. A few were standing, others were moving to and fro. Half of them carried Brown Besses, blunderbusses, or old horse-pistols, and three or four were girt with ancient swords lugged for the purpose from bacon-rack or oak chest. The horses of the men matched as ill as their arms, being of all heights and all degrees of shagginess, and some riders had one spur, and some none. But the troop meant business, it was clear, and Anthony Clyne's heart went out to them in gratitude. Hitherto he had ridden through a country-side heedless or ignorant of his loss, and of what was afoot; and the tardy intelligence, the slow answer, had tried him sorely. Here at last was an end of that. As the honest dalesmen, gathered before the inn, hauled their hard-mouthed beasts to the edge of the road to make way for him, and doffed their hats in silent sympathy, he thanked them with his eyes.

In spite of his empty sleeve he was off his horse in a moment.

"Have they learned anything?" he asked, his voice harsh with suppressed emotion.

The nearest man began to explain in the slow northern fashion. "No, not as yet, your honour. But we shall, no doubt, i' good time. We know that they landed here in a boat."

"Ay, your honour, have no fear!" cried a second. "We'll get him back!"

And then Nadin came out.

"This way, if you please, Squire," he said, touching his arm and leading him aside. "We are just starting to scour the hills, but- "he broke off and did not say any more until he had drawn Clyne out of earshot.

Then, "It's certain that they landed here," he said, turning and facing him. "We know that, Squire. And I fancy that they are not far away. The holt is somewhere near, for it is here we lost the other fox. I'm pretty sure that if we search the hills for a few hours we'll light on them. But that's the long way. And damme!" vehemently, "there's a short way if we are men and not mice."

Clyne's eyes gleamed.

"A short way?" he muttered. In spite of Nadin's zeal the Manchester officer's manner had more than once disgusted his patron. It had far from that effect now. The man might swear and welcome, be familiar, he what he pleased, if he would also act! If he would recover the child from the cruel hands that held it! His very bluntness and burliness and sufficiency gave hope. "A short way?" Clyne repeated.

Nadin struck his great fist into the other palm.

"Ay, a short way!" he answered. "There's a witness here can tell us all we want if she will but speak. I am just from her. A woman who knows and can set us on the track if she chooses! And we'll have but to ride to covert and take the fox."

Clyne laid his hand on the other's arm.

"Do you mean," he asked huskily, struggling to keep hope within bounds, "that there is some one here-who knows where they are?"

"I do!" Nadin answered with an oath. "And knows where the child is. But she'll not speak."

"Not speak?"

"No, she'll not tell. It's the young lady you were here about before, Squire, to be frank with you."

"Miss Damer?" in a tone of astonishment.

"Ay, Squire, she!" Nadin replied. "She! And the young madam knows, d-n her! It's all one business, you may take it from me! It's all one gang! She was at the place where they landed after dark last night."

"Impossible!" Clyne cried. "Impossible! I cannot believe you."

"Ay, but she was. She let herself down from a window when the house had gone to bed that she might get there. Ay, Squire, you may look, but she did. She did not meet them; she was too soon or too late, we don't know which. But she was there, as sure as I am here! And I suspect-though Bishop, who is a bit of a softy, like most of those London men, doesn't agree-that she was in the thing from the beginning, Squire! And planned it, may be, but you'd be the best judge of that. Any way, we are agreed that she knows now. That is clear as daylight!"

"Knows, and will not tell?" Clyne cried. Such conduct seemed too monstrous, too wicked to the man who had strained every nerve to reach his child, who had ridden in terror for hours, trembling at the passage of every minute, grudging the loss of every second. "Knows, and will not tell!" he repeated. "Impossible!"

"It's not impossible, Squire," Nadin answered. "We're clear on it. We're all clear on it."

"That she knows where the child is?" incredulously. "Where they are keeping it?"

"That's it."

"And will not say?"

Nadin grinned.

"Not for us," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "She may for you. But she is stubborn as a mule. I can't say worse than that. Stubborn as a mule, Squire!"

Clyne raised his hand to hide the twitching nostril, the quivering lip that betrayed his agitation. But the hand shook. He could not yet believe that she was privy to this wickedness. But-but if she only knew it now and kept her knowledge to herself-she was, he dared not think what she was. A gust of passion took him at the thought, and whitened his face to the very lips. He had to turn away that the coarse-grained, underbred man beside him might not see too much. And a few seconds went by before he could command his voice sufficiently to ask Nadin what evidence he had of this-this monstrous charge. "How do you know-I want to be clear-how do you know," he asked, sternly meeting his eyes, "that she left the house last night to meet them? That she was there to meet them? Have you evidence?" He could not believe that a woman of his class, of his race, would do this thing.

"Evidence?" Nadin answered coolly. "Plenty!" And he told the story of the foot-prints, and of Mr. Sutton's experiences in the night; and added that one of the child's woollen mits had been found between the bottom-boards of a boat beached at that spot-a boat which bore signs of recent use. "If you are not satisfied and would like to see his reverence," he continued, "and question him before you see her-shall I send him to you?"

"Ay, send him," Clyne said with an effort. He had been incredulous, but the evidence seemed overwhelming. Yet he struggled, he tried to disbelieve. Not because his thoughts still held any tenderness for the girl, or he retained any remnant of the troublesome feeling that had haunted him; for the shock of the child's abduction had driven such small emotions from his mind. But with the country rising about him, amid this gathering of men upon whom he had no claim, but who asked nothing better than to be brought face to face with the authors of the outrage-with these proofs of public sympathy before his eyes it seemed impossible that a woman, a girl, should wantonly set herself on the other side, and shield the criminals. It seemed impossible. But then, when the first news of her elopement with an unknown stranger had reached him, he had thought that impossible! Yet it had turned out to be true, and less than the fact; since the man was not only beneath her, but a radical and a villain!

"But I will see Sutton," he muttered, striving to hold his rage in check. "I will see Sutton. Perhaps he may be able to explain. Perhaps he may be able to put another face on the matter."

The chaplain would fain have done so; more out of a generous pity for the unfortunate girl than out of any lingering hope of ingratiating himself with her. But he did not know what to say, except that though she had gone to the rendezvous she had not seen nor met any one. He laid stress on that, for he had nothing else to plead. But he had to allow that her purpose had been to meet some one; and at the weak attempt to excuse her Clyne's rage broke forth.

"She is shameless!" he cried. "Shameless! Can you say after this that she has given up all dealings with her lover? Though she passed her word and knows him for a married man?"

The chaplain shook his head.

"I cannot," he said sorrowfully. "I cannot say that. But-"

"She gave her word! Tome. To others."

"I allow it. But-"

"But what? What?" with hardly restrained rage. "Will you still, sir, take her side against the innocent? Against the child, whom she has conspired to entrap, to carry off, perhaps to murder?"

"Oh, no, no!" Mr. Sutton cried in unfeigned horror. "That I do not believe! I do not believe that for an instant! I allow, I admit," he continued eagerly, "that she has been weak, and that she has madly, foolishly permitted this wretch to retain a hold over her."

"At any rate," Clyne retorted, his rage at a white heat, "she has lied to me!"

"I admit it."

"And to others!"

The chaplain could only hold out his hands in deprecation.

"You will admit that she has continued to communicate with a man she should loathe? A man whom, if she were a modest girl, she would loathe? That she has stolen to midnight interviews with him, leaving this house as a thief leaves it? That she has cast all modesty from her?"

"Do not, do not be too hard on her!" Sutton cried, his face flushing hotly. "Captain Clyne, I beg-I beg you to be merciful."

"It is she who is hard on herself! But have no fear," Clyne continued, in a voice cold as the winter fells and as pitiless. "I shall give her fifteen minutes to come to her senses and behave herself-not as a decent woman, I no longer ask that, but as a woman, any woman, the lowest, would behave herself, to save a child's life. And if she behaves herself-well. And if not, sir, it is not I who will punish her, but the law!"

"She will speak," the chaplain said. "I think she will speak-for you."

He was deeply and honestly concerned for the girl: and full of pity for her, though he did not understand her.

"But-suppose I saw her first?" he suggested. "Just for a few minutes? I could explain."

"Nothing that I cannot," Captain Clyne answered grimly. "And for a few minutes! Do you not consider," with a look of suspicion, "that there has been delay enough already? And too much! Fifteen minutes," with a recurrence of the bitter laugh, "she shall have, and not one minute more, if she were my sister!"

Mr. Sutton's face turned red again.

"Remember, sir," he said bravely, "that she was going to be your wife."

"I do remember it!" Clyne retorted with a withering glance. "And thank God for His mercy."

CHAPTER XXI
COUSIN MEETS COUSIN

Nadin and the others had not left her more than ten minutes when Henrietta heard his voice under the window. She was still flushed and heated, sore with the things which they had said to her, bruised and battered by their vulgarity and bluster. Indignation still burned in her; and astonishment that they could not see the case as she saw it. The argument in her own mind was clear. They must prove that Walterson had committed this new crime, they must prove that if she betrayed the man she would save the child-and she would speak. Or she would speak if they would undertake to release the man were he not guilty. But short of that, no. She would not turn informer against him, whom she had chosen in her folly-except to save life. What could be more clear, what more fair, what more logical? And was it not monstrous to ask anything beyond this?

She had wrought herself in truth to an almost hysterical stubbornness on the point. The romantic bent that had led her to the verge of ruin still inclined her feelings. Yet when she heard the father's step approaching along the passage, she trembled. She gazed in terror at the door. The prospect of the father's tears, the father's supplication, shook her. She had to say to herself, "I must not tell, I must not! I must not!" as if the repetition of the words would strengthen her under the torture of his appeal. And when he entered, in the fear of what he might say she was before him. She did not look at him, or heed what message his face conveyed-or she had been frozen into silence. But in a panic she rushed on the subject.

"I am sorry, oh, I am so sorry!" she cried, tears in her voice. "I would do it, if I could, I would indeed. But I cannot," distressfully, "I must not! And I beg you to spare me your reproaches."

"I have none to make to you," he said.

It was his tone, rather than his words, which cut her like a whip.

"None!" she cried. "Ah, but you blame me? I am sure you do."

"I do not blame you," he replied in the same cold tone. "My business here has nothing to do with reproaches or with blame. I give you fifteen minutes to tell me what you know, and all you know, of the man Walterson's whereabouts. That told, I have no more to say to you."

She looked at him as one thunderstruck.

"And if I do not do that," she murmured, "within fifteen minutes? If I do not tell you?"

"You will go to Appleby gaol," he said, in the same passionless tone. "To herd with your like, with such women as may be there." He laid his watch on the table, beside his whip and glove; and he looked not at her, but at it.

"And you? You will send me?" she answered.

"I?" he replied slowly. "No, I shall merely undo what I did before. My coming last time saved you from the fate which your taste for low company had earned. This time I stand aside and the result will be the same as if I had never come. There is, let me remind you, a minute gone."

She looked at him, her face colourless, but her eyes undaunted. But the look was wasted, for he looked only at his watch.

"You are come, then," she said, her voice shaking a little, "not to reproach me, but to insult me! To outrage me!"

"I have no thought of you," he answered.

The words, the tone, lashed her in the face. Her nostrils quivered.

"You think only of your child!" she cried.

"That is all," he answered. And then in the same passionless tone, "Do not waste time."

"Do not-"

"Do not waste time!" he repeated. "That is all I have to say to you."

She stood as one stunned; dazed by his treatment of her; shaken to the soul by his relentless, pitiless tone, by his thinly veiled hatred.

He who had before been cold, precise and just was become inhuman, implacable, a stone. Presently, "Three minutes are gone," he said.

"And if I tell you?" she answered in a voice which, though low, vibrated with resentment and indignation, "if I tell you what you wish to know, what then?"

"I shall save the child-I trust. Certainly I shall save him from further suffering."

"And what of me?"

"You will escape for this time."

Her breast heaved with the passion she restrained. Her foot tapped the floor. Her fingers drummed on the table. Such treatment was not fit treatment for a dog, much less for a woman, a gentlewoman! And his injustice! How dared he! How dared he! What had she done to deserve it? Nothing! No, nothing to deserve this.

Meanwhile he seemed to have eyes only for his watch, laid open on the table before him. But he noted the signs, and he fancied that she was about to break down, that she was yielding, that in a moment she would fall to weeping, perhaps would fall on her knees-and tell him all. A faint surprise, therefore, pierced his pitiless composure when, after the lapse of a long minute, she spoke in a tone that was comparatively calm and decided.

"You have forgotten," she said slowly, "that I am of your blood! That I was to be your wife!"

"It was you who forgot that!" he replied.

She had her riposte ready.

"And wisely!" she answered, "and wisely! How wisely you have proved to me to-day-you," – with scorn equal to his own-"who are willing to sacrifice me, a helpless woman, on the mere chance of saving your child! Who are willing to send me, a woman of your blood, to prison and to shame, to herd-you have said it yourself-with such vile women as prisons hold! And that on the mere chance of saving your son! For shame, Captain Clyne, for shame!"

"You are wasting time," he answered. "You have eight minutes."

"You are determined that I shall go?"

"Or speak."

"Will you not hear," she asked slowly, "what I have to say on my side? What reason I have for not speaking? What excuse? What extenuation of my conduct?"

"No," he replied. "Your reasons for speaking or not speaking, your conduct or misconduct, are nothing to me. I am thinking of my child."

"And not at all of me?"

"No."

"Yet listen," she said, with something approaching menace in her tone, "for you will think of me! You will think of me-presently! When it is too late, Captain Clyne, you will remember that I stood before you, that I was alone and helpless, and you would not hear my reasons nor my excuses. You will remember that I was a girl, abandoned by all, left alone among strangers and spies, without friend or adviser."

"I," he said, coldly interrupting her, "was willing to advise you. But you took your own path. You know that."

"I know," she retorted with sudden passion, "that you were willing to insult me! That you were willing to set me, because I had committed an act of folly, as low as the lowest! So low that all men were the same to me! So low that I might be handed like a carter's daughter who had misbehaved herself, to the first man who was willing to cover her disgrace. That! that was your way of helping me and advising me!"

"In two minutes," he said in measured accents, "the time will be up!"

He appeared to be quite unmoved by her reproaches. His manner was as cold, as repellant, as harsh as ever. But he was not so entirely untouched by her appeal as he wished her to think. For the time, indeed, his heart was numbed by anxiety, his breast was rendered insensible by the grip of suspense. But the barbed arrows of her reproaches stuck and remained. And presently the wounds would smart and rankle, troubling his conscience, if not his heart. It is possible that he had already a suspicion of this. If so, it only deepened his rage and his hostility.

With the same pitiless composure, he repeated:

"In two minutes. There is still time, but no more than time."

"You have told me that you do not wish to hear my reasons?"

"For silence? I do not."

"They will not turn you," her voice shook under the maddening sense of his injustice, "whatever they are?"

"No," he answered, "they will not. And having said that I have said all that I propose to say."

"You condemn me unheard?"

"I condemn you? No, the law will condemn you, if you are condemned."

"Then I, too," she answered, with a beating heart-for indignation almost choked her-"have said all that I propose to say. All!"

"Think! Think, girl!" he cried.

She was silent.

He closed his watch with a sharp, clicking sound, and put it in his fob.

"You will not speak?" he said.

"No!"

Then passion, long restrained, long kept under, swept him away. He took a stride forward, and before she guessed what he would be at, he had seized her wrist, gripping it cruelly.

"But you shall! – you shall!" he cried. His face full of passion was close to hers, he pressed her a pace backwards. "You vixen! Speak now!" he cried. "Speak!"

"Let me go!" she cried.

"Speak or I will force it from you. Where is he?"

"I will never speak!" she panted, struggling with him, and trying to snatch her arm from him. "I will never speak! You coward! Let me go!"

"Speak or I will break your wrist," he hissed.

He was hurting her horribly.

But, "Never! Never! Never!" She shrieked the word at him, her face white with rage and pain, her eyes blazing. "Never, you coward. You coward! Let me go!"

He let her go then-too late remembering himself. He stepped back. Breathing hard, she leant against the table, and nursed her bruised wrist in the other hand. Her face, an instant before white, now flamed with anger. Never, never since she was a little child had she been so treated, so handled! Every fibre in her was in revolt. But she did not speak. She only, rocking herself slightly to and fro, scathed him with her eyes. The coward! The coward!

And he was as yet too angry-though he had remembered himself and released her-to feel much shame for what he had done. He was too wrapt in the boy and his object to think soberly of anything else. He went, his hand shaking a little, his face disordered by the outbreak, to the bell and rang it. As he turned again,

"Your ruin be on your own head!" he cried.

And he looked at her, hating her, hating her rebellious bearing.

He saw in her, with her glowing cheeks and eyes bright with fury, the murderess of his boy. What else, since, if it was not her plan, she covered it? Since, if it was not her deed, she would not stay it? She must be one of those feminine monsters, those Brinvilliers, blonde and innocent to the eye, whom passion degraded to the lowest! Whom a cursed infatuation made suddenly most base, driving them to excesses and crimes.

While she, her breast boiling with indignation, her heart bursting with the sense of bodily outrage, of bodily pain, forgot the anguish he was suffering. She forgot the provocation that had exasperated him to madness, that had driven him to violence. She saw in him a cowardly bully, a man cruel, without shame or feeling. She fully believed now that he had flogged a seaman to death. Why not, since he had so treated her? Why not, since it was clear that there was no torture to which he would not resort, if he dared, to wring from her the secret he desired?

And a torrent of words, a flood of scathing reproaches and fierce home-truths, rose to her lips. But she repressed them. To complain was to add to her humiliation, to augment her shame. To protest was to stoop lower. And strung to the highest pitch of animosity they remained confronting one another in silence, until the door opened and Justice Hornyold entered, followed by his clerk. After these Nadin, Bishop, Mr. Sutton, and two or three more trooped in until the room was half full of people.

It was clear that they had had their orders below, and knew what to expect; for all looked grave, and some nervous. Even Hornyold betrayed by his air, half sheepish and half pompous, that he was not quite comfortable.

"The young lady has not spoken?" he said.