Weyman Stanley John
Starvecrow Farm

"No," Clyne answered, breathing quickly. He could not in a moment return to his ordinary self. "She refuses to speak."

"You have laid before her reasons?"

He averted his eyes.

"I have said all I can," he muttered sullenly. "I have assured myself that she is privy to this matter, and I withdraw the informal undertaking which I gave a fortnight ago that she should be forthcoming if wanted. Unless, therefore, you are satisfied with the landlord's bail-but that is for you."

Mr. Hornyold shook his head.

"With this new charge advanced?" he said. "No, I am afraid not. Certainly not. But perhaps," looking at her, "the young lady will still change her mind. To change the mind" – with a feeble grin-"is a lady's privilege."

"I shall not tell you anything," Henrietta said with a catch in her breath. She hid her smarting, tingling wrist behind her. She might have complained; but not for the world would she have let them know what he had done to her, what she had suffered.

Mr. Sutton, who was standing in the background, stepped forward.

"Miss Damer," he said earnestly, "I beg you, I implore you to think."

"I have thought," she answered with stubborn anger. "And if I could help him," she pointed to Clyne, "if I could help him by lifting my finger-"

"Oh, dear, dear!" the chaplain cried, appalled by her vehemence. "Don't say that! Don't say that!"

"What shall I say, then?" she answered-still she remembered herself. "I have told you that I know nothing of the abduction of his child. That is all I have to say."

Hornyold shook his sleek head again.

"I am afraid that won't do," he said. "What" – consulting Nadin with his eye-"what do the officers say?"

Nadin laughed curtly.

"Not by no means, it won't do!" he said. "What she says is slap up against the evidence, sir, and evidence strong enough to hang a man. The truth is, your reverence, the young lady has had every chance, and all said and done we are losing time. And time is more than money! The sooner she is under lock and key the better."

"You apply that she be committed?" Hornyold asked slowly.

"I do, sir."

The Justice looked at Bishop.

"Do you join in the application?" he asked.

The officer nodded, but with evident reluctance.

The clerk, who had taken his seat at the corner of the table and laid some papers before him, dipped his pen in the inkhorn, which he carried at his button-hole. He prepared to write. "On the charge of being accessory?" he said in a low voice. "Before or after, Mr. Nadin?"

"Both," said Nadin.

"After," said Bishop.

The clerk looked from one to the other, and then began to write; but slowly, and as if he wished to leave as long as possible a locus penitentiæ. It was a feeling shared by all except Captain Clyne. Even the Manchester man, hardened as he was by a rude life in the roughest of towns, had had jobs more to his taste-and wished it done; while the feeling of the greater part was one of pity. The girl was so young, her breeding and refinement were so manifest, her courage so high, she confronted them so bravely, that they were sensible of something cruel in their attitude to her; gathered as they were many to one-and that one a woman with no one of her sex beside her. They recoiled from the idea of using force to her. And now it was really come to the point of imprisoning her, those who had a notion what a prison was disliked it most; fearing not only that she might resist removal and cause a heart-rending scene, but still more that she had unknown sufferings before her.

For the prisons of that day were not the prisons of to-day. There was no separation of one class of offenders from another. There were no separate cells, there were rarely even separate beds. Girls awaiting trial were liable to be locked up with the worst women-felons. Nay, the very warders were often old offenders, who had earned their places by favour. In small country prisons, conditions were better, but air, light, space, and cleanliness were woefully lacking. Something might be done, no doubt, to soften the lot of a prisoner of Henrietta's class; but indulgence depended on the whim of the jailor-who at Appleby was a blacksmith! – and could be withdrawn as easily as it was granted.

Suddenly the clerk looked up over his glasses. "The full name," he said, "if you please."

"Henrietta Mary Damer." It was Clyne who spoke.

The clerk added the name, and rising from his seat offered the pen to the magistrate. But Hornyold hesitated. He looked flurried, and something startled.

"But should not-" he murmured, "ought we not to communicate with her brother-with-Sir Charles? He must be her guardian!"

"Sir Charles," Clyne answered, "has repudiated all responsibility. It would be useless to apply to him. I have seen him. And the matter is a criminal matter."

The girl said nothing, but her colour faded suddenly. And in the eyes of one or two she seemed a more pitiful figure, standing alone and mute, than before. But for the awe in which they held Clyne, and their knowledge of his reason for severity, the chaplain and Long Tom Gilson, who was one of those by the door, would have intervened. As it was, Hornyold stooped to the table and signed the form-or was signing it when the clerk spoke.

"One moment, your reverence," he said in a low voice. "The debtors' quarters at Appleby, where they'd be sure to put the young lady, are as good as under water at this time of the year. Kendal's nearer, she'd be better there. And you've power to say which it shall be."

"Kendal, then," Hornyold assented. The name was altered and he signed the committal.

As he rose from the table, constraint fell on one and all. They wondered nervously what was to come next; and it was left to Nadin to put an end to the scene. "Landlord!" he said, turning to the door, "a chaise for Kendal in ten minutes. And send your servant to go with the young lady to her room, and get together what she'll want. You'd best take her, Bishop."

Bishop assented in a low tone, and Gilson went out to give the order. Hornyold said something to Clyne and they talked together in low tones and with averted faces. Then, still talking, they moved to the door and went out without looking towards her. The clerk gathered up his papers, handed one to Bishop, and fastened the others together with a piece of red tape. That done, he, too, rose and followed the magistrate, making her an awkward bow as he passed. Mr. Sutton alone remained, and, pale and excited, fidgeted to and fro; he could not bear to stay, and he could not bear to leave the girl alone with the officers. Possibly-but to do him justice this went for little-he might by staying commend himself to her, he might wipe out the awkward impression made by the night's adventure. But Clyne put in his head and called him in a peremptory tone; and he had to go with a feeble apologetic glance at her. She was left standing by the table, alone with the officers.

For an instant she looked wildly at the door. Then, "May I go to my room now?" she asked in a low tone.

"Not alone," Nadin answered-but civilly, for him. "In a moment the woman will be here, and you can go with her. It's not quite regular, but we'll stretch a point. But you must not be long, miss! You'll have no need," with a faint grin, "of many frocks, or furbelows, where you're going."

CHAPTER XXII
MR. SUTTON'S NEW RÔLE

When the chaise which carried the prisoner to Kendal had left the inn, and the search parties had gone their way under leaders who knew the country, and the long tail of the last shaggy pony had whisked itself out of sight, a dullness exceeding that of November settled down on the inn by the lake. The road in front ran, a dull, unbroken ribbon, along the water-side; and alone and melancholy the chaplain walked up and down, up and down, the last man left. Occasionally Mrs. Gilson appeared at the door and looked this way and that; but her eye was sombre and her manner did not invite approach or confidence. Occasionally, too, Modest Ann's face was pressed against the window of the coffee-room, where she was setting out the long table against evening; but she was disguised in tears and temper, and before Mr. Sutton could identify the phenomenon, or grasp its meaning, she was gone. The frosty promise of the morning had vanished, and in its place leaden clouds dulled sky and lake, and hung heavy and black on the scarred forehead of Bow Fell. Mr. Sutton looked above and below, and this way and that, and, too restless to go in, found no comfort without. He wished that he had gone with the searchers, though he knew not a step of the country. He wished that he had said more for the girl, and stood up for her more firmly, though to do so had been to quarrel with his patron. Above all, he wished that he had never seen her, never given way to the temptation to aspire to her, never started in pursuit of her-last of all, that he had never stooped to spy on her. He was ill content with himself and his work; ill content with the world, his patron, everybody, everything. No man was ever worse content.

For Nemesis in an unexpected form was overtaking, nay even as he walked the road, had overtaken the chaplain. He had come to marry, he remained to love; he had come to enjoy, he remained to suffer. He had come, dazzled by the girl's rank and fortune, that rank and that fortune which he had thought so much above himself, and to which her beauty added so piquant and delicate a charm. And, lo, it was neither her rank, nor her fortune, nor her beauty that, as he walked, beat at his heart and would be heard, would have entrance; but the girl's lonely plight and her disgrace and her trouble. On a sudden, as he went helplessly and aimlessly and unhappily up and down the road, he recognised the truth; he knew what was the matter with him. His eyes filled, his feelings overcame him-and no man was ever more surprised. He had to walk a little way down the road before, out of ken of the horse, he dared to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Nor even then could he refrain from one or two foolish, unmanly gasps.

"I did not think that I was-such a fool!" he muttered. "Such a fool! I didn't think it!"

When he regained command of himself he found that his feet had borne him to the gate-pillar where so much had happened the previous day. To the very place where he had surprised Henrietta as she arranged her signal, and where she had so nearly surprised him in the act of watching her! In his new-born repentance, in his newborn honesty he hated the place; he hated it only less than he hated the conduct of which it reminded him. And partly out of sentiment, partly out of some unowned notion of doing penance, he turned and slowly retraced her course to the inn, treading as far as possible where she had trodden. When he reached the door he did not go in, but, unwilling to face any one, he went on as far as a seat on the foreshore, where he had seen her sit. And the sentiment of her presence still forming the attraction, he wondered if she had paused there on that morning, or if she had gone indoors at once.

He was so unhappy that he did not feel the cold. The thought of her warmed him, and he sat for a minute or two, with his eyes on the gloomy face of the lake that, towards the farther shore, frowned more darkly under the shadow of the woods. He wished that he understood her conduct better, that he had the clue to it. He wished that he understood her refusal to speak. But right or wrong, she was in trouble and he loved her. Ay, right or wrong! For good or ill! Still he sighed, for all was very dark. And presently he went to rise.

His eyes in the act fell on a few scraps of paper which lay at his feet and showed the whiter for the general gloom. Letters were not so common then as now. It was much if one person in five could write. The postage on a note sent from the south of England to the north was a shilling; the pages were crossed and recrossed, were often read and cherished long. Paper, therefore, did not lie abroad, as it lies abroad now; and Mr. Sutton-hardly knowing what he did-bent his eyes on the scraps. He was long-sighted, and on one morsel a little larger than its neighbours, he read the word "gate."

In other circumstances he would not ten seconds later have known what words he had read. But at the moment he had the incident of the gate-post in his head-and Henrietta; and he apprehended as in a flash that this might be the summons which had called her forth the previous night-to her great damage. He conceived that after answering it by setting the signal on the gate-post she might have come to this place, and before going into the house might have torn up the letter and scattered the pieces abroad. If so the secret lay at his feet; and if he stooped and took it up, he might help her.

He hung in doubt a few seconds. For he was grown strangely scrupulous. But he reflected that he could destroy the evidence if it bore against her-he would destroy it! And he gave way. Furtively, but with an eager hand, he collected the scraps of paper. There were about a score, the size of dice, and discoloured by moisture, strewn here and there round the seat. Behind, among the prickly shoots and brown roots of a gorse-bush were as many more, as if she had dropped a handful there. Another dozen he tracked down, one here, one there, in spots to which the wind had carried them. It was unlikely that he had got all, even then. But though he searched as narrowly as he dared-even going on his knees beside the bush-he could find no more. Doubtless the wind had taken toll; and at length, carrying what he had found hidden in his hand, he went into the house and sought refuge in his bedroom.

Eagerly, though he had little hope of finding the result to his mind, he began to arrange the morsels. He found the task less hard than he had anticipated. Guided by the straight edges of the paper, he contrived in eight or nine minutes to piece the letter together; to such an extent, at any rate, as enabled him to gather its drift. About a fifth of the words were missing; and among these missing words were the opening phrase, the last two words, and about a score in the body of the note. But the gist of the message was clear, its tone and feeling survived; and they not only negatived the notion that Henrietta was in league with Walterson, but presented in all its strength the appeal which his prayer must needs have made to the heart of a romantic girl.

"… ed you ill, but men are not as women and I was tempted … I do not ask … forgive … I ask you to save me. I am in your hands. If you … the heart to leave me to a … lent death, all is said. If you have mercy meet my … ger at ten to-mor … ning … Troutbeck lane comes down to the lake. As I hope to live you run no risk and can suffer no harm. If you are merci … spare me … put a … stone, before noon to-morrow, on the post of the … gate…"

Strange to say, Mr. Sutton's first feeling, when he had assured himself of the truth, was an excessive, furious indignation against his patron. He forgot, in his pity for the girl, the provocation which Captain Clyne had suffered. He forgot the child's peril and the pressure which this had laid on the father's feelings. He forgot the light in which the girl's stubborn silence had placed her in the eyes of one who believed that she could save by a word that which he held more precious than his life. The chaplain was a narrow, and in secret a conceited man; he had been guilty of some things that ill became his cloth. But he had under his cloth a heart that once roused was capable of generous passion. And as he stalked up and down the room in a frenzy of love and pity and indignation, he longed for the moment which should see him face to face with Captain Clyne. The letter once shown, he did not conceive that there would be the least difficulty in freeing the girl; and he yearned for the return of the search parties. It was past four already; in the valley it was growing dusk. Yet if Clyne returned soon the girl might be released before night. She might be spared the humiliation, it might well be the misery, of a night in prison.

His room looked to the back of the inn; and here where all the afternoon had been plucking of ducks and fowls, and slicing of flitches-for some of the searchers would need to be fed-lights were beginning to shine and a cheerful stir and a warm promise of comfort to prevail. From the kitchen, where the jacks were turning, firelight streamed across the yard, and pattens clicked, and dogs occasionally yelped; and now and again Mrs. Gilson's voice clacked strenuously. In the heat of his feelings Mr. Sutton compared this outlook with the cold quarters that held his Henrietta; and tears rose anew as he pictured the dank prison yard and the bare stone rooms, and the squalor and the company. After that he could not sit still. He could not wait. He must be acting. He must tell his discovery to some one, no matter to whom. He arranged the letter between the pages of a book and, having arranged it, took the book under his arm and ran downstairs. At the door of her snuggery he came upon Mrs. Gilson, who had just had words with Modest Ann. She eyed him sourly.

"I want to show you something!" he said impetuously, forgetting his fear of her. "I have discovered something, ma'am! A thing of the utmost importance."

She grunted.

"If it has to do with the child," she said grudgingly, "I'll hear it, and thank you."

"It has naught to do with the child," he answered bluntly. "It has to do with Miss Damer."

"Then I'll have naught to do with it!" the landlady retorted with equal bluntness, pursing up her lips and speaking as drily as a file. "I've washed my hands of her."

"But listen to me!" he replied. "Listen to me, Mrs. Gilson! Here's a young lady-"

"That's behaved bad from the beginning-bad!" the landlady answered, cutting him short. "As bad as woman could! A woman, indeed, would have had some heart, and not have left an innocent child in the hands of a parcel of murderous villains! No, no, my gentleman, you'll not persuade me. An egg is good or bad, as you find it, and 'tis no good saying that the yolk is good when the white is tainted?"

"But see here, ma'am" – he was bursting with indignation-"you are entirely wrong! Entirely wrong!"

"Then your reverence had best speak to Captain Clyne, for it's not my business!" Mrs. Gilson retorted crushingly. "I'm no scholar and don't meddle with writings." And she turned her broad back upon him and the book which he proffered her.

Mr. Sutton stood a moment in anger equal to his discomfiture. Then he went back slowly to his pacing in the road. After all the woman could do nothing, she was nothing. And the search parties would be returning soon. For night was falling. The last pale daylight was dying on the high fells towards Patterdale; the outlines of the low lands about the lake were fading into the blur of night. Here and there a tiny rushlight shone out, high up, and marked a hill-farm. Possibly the searchers had found the child. In that case, Mr. Sutton's heart, which should have leapt at the thought, only mildly rejoiced; and that, rather on account of the favourable turn the discovery might give to Henrietta's affairs, than for his patron's sake. Not that he was not sorry for the child, and sorry for the father; he tried, indeed, to feel more sorry. But he was not a man of warm feelings, and his sensibilities were selfish. He could not be expected to blossom out in a moment in more directions than one. It was something if he had learned in the few days he had spent by the lake to think of any other than himself.

Had he been more anxious, had it been not he, but the father, who paced there in suspense, dwelling on what a moment might bring forth, he had been keener to notice things. He had traced, down the shoulder of Wansfell, the slow march of a dancing light that marked the descent of one of the parties. He had heard afar off the voices of the men, who announced from Calgarth that Mrs. Watson's servants had searched the woods as far as Elleray, but without success-these, indeed, were the first to come in. Hard on them arrived a band, under Mr. Curwen's bailiff, which had made the tour of the islands-Belle Isle, Lady Holm, Thompson's Holm, and the rest-with the same result; and almost at the same moment rode in, with jaded horses, the troop of yeomen who had undertaken to traverse the broken country at the head of the lake, between the Brathay and the Rotha. Two parties, the Troutbeck contingent with which was Captain Clyne, and the riders who had chosen Stock Ghyll valley and the Kirkstone, were still out at seven; and as the others had met with no success, their return was eagerly awaited. For the road between the inn and the lake was astir with life. Ostlers' lanthorns twinkled hither and thither, and the place was like a fair. A crowd of men, muffled in homespun plaids, blocked the doorway, and gabbling over their ale, stared now in one direction, now in the other; while the more highly favoured flocked into the snuggery and coffee-room and there discussed the chances in stentorian tones. The chaplain, with his feelings engaged elsewhere, wondered at the fury of some, and the heat of all; and was shocked by their oaths and threats of vengeance.

Clyne and his party came in about half-past seven; and as it chanced that the Stock Ghyll troop arrived at the same minute, the whole house turned out to meet the two, and learn their news. Alas, the downcast faces of the riders told it sufficiently; and every head was uncovered as Clyne, with stern and moody eyes, rode to the door and dismounted. He turned to the throng of faces, and the lanthorn-light falling on his features showed them pale and disturbed.

"My friends," he said, "I thank you. I shall not forget this day. I shall never forget this day. I-" and then, though he was a practised speaker, he could not say more or go on. He made a gesture, at once pathetic and dignified, with his single arm, and turning from them went slowly up the stairs with his chin on his breast.

The farmers were Tories to a man. Even Brougham's silver tongue had failed (in the election of the year before) to turn them against the Lowthers. They were of the class from whom the yeomanry were drawn, and they had scant sympathy with the radical weavers of Rochdale and Bury, Bolton and Manchester. Had they caught the villains at this moment, they had made short work of them. They watched the slight figure with its empty sleeve as it passed into the house, and their looks of compassion were exceeded only by their curses loud and deep. And pitiful indeed was the tale which those, who were forced to leave, carried home to their wives and daughters on the fells.

The chaplain, hovering on the edge of the chattering groups, could not come at once at his patron, who had no sooner reached the head of the stairs than he was beset by Nadin and others with reports and arrangements. But as soon as Clyne had gone wearily to his room to take some food before starting afresh-for it was determined to continue the search as soon as the moon rose-the chaplain went to him with his book under his arm.

He found Clyne seated before the fire, with his chin on his hand and his attitude one of the deepest despondency. He had borne up with difficulty under the public gaze; he gave way, martinet as he was, the moment he was alone. The reflection that the child might have been within reach of his voice, yet beyond his help, that it might be crying to him even now, and crying in vain, that each hour which exposed it to hardship endangered its life-such thoughts harrowed the father's feelings almost beyond endurance. Sutton suspected from his attitude that he was praying; and for a moment the chaplain, touched and affected, was in two minds about disturbing him. But he, too, had his harassing thoughts. His heart, too, burned with pity. And to turn back now was to abandon hope-grown forlorn already-of freeing Henrietta that evening. He went forward therefore with boldness. He laid his book on the table, and finding himself unheeded, cleared his throat.

"I have something here," he said-and his voice despite himself was needlessly stiff and distant-"which I think it my duty, Captain Clyne, to show you without delay."

Clyne turned slowly and rose as he turned.

"To show me?" he muttered.

"Yes."

"What is it? You have not" – raising his eyes with a sudden intake of breath-"discovered anything? A clue?"

"I have discovered something," the chaplain answered slowly. "It is a clue of a kind."

A rush of blood darkened Clyne's face. He held out a shaking hand.

"To where the lad is?" he ejaculated, taking a step forward. "To where they have taken him? If it be so, God bless you, Sutton! God bless you! God bless you! I'll never-"

The clergyman cut him short. He was shocked by the other's intense excitement and frightened by the swelling of his features. He stayed him by a gesture.

"Nay, nay," he cried. "I did not mean, sir, to awaken false hopes. Pray pardon me. Pray pardon me. It is a clue, but to Miss Damer's conduct this morning! To her conduct throughout. To her reasons for silence. Which were not, I am now able to show you, connected with any feeling of hostility to you, Captain Clyne, but rather imposed upon her-"

But Clyne's face had settled into a mask of stone. Only he knew what the disappointment was! And at that word, "I care not what they were!" he said in a voice incredibly harsh, "or how imposed! If that be all-if that is all you are here to tell me-"

"But if it be all, it is all to her!" Sutton retorted, stung in his turn. "And most urgent, sir."

"As to her?"

"As to her. It places her conduct in an entirely different light, Captain Clyne, and one which it is your duty to recognise."

"Have I not said," Clyne answered with bitter vehemence, "that I wish to hear naught of her conduct? Do you know, sir, in what light I regard her?"

"I hope in none that-that-"

"As a murderess," Clyne answered in the same tone of restrained fury. "She has conspired against a child! A boy who never harmed her, and now never could have harmed her! She is not worthy of the name of woman! I thank God that He has helped me to keep her out of my mind as I rode to-day. And you-you must needs bring her up again! Know that I loathe and detest her, sir, and pray that I may never see her, never hear her name again!"

Mr. Sutton raised his hands in horror.

"You are unjust!" he cried. "Indeed, indeed, you are unjust!"

"What is that to you? And who are you to talk to me? Is it your child who is missing? Your child who is being tortured, perhaps out of life? Who, a cripple, is being dragged at these men's heels? You? You? What have you to do with this?"

The tone was crushing. But the chaplain, too, had his stubborn side, and resentment flamed within him as he thought of the girl and her lot. "Do I understand then," he said-he was very pale-"that you refuse to hear what I have by chance discovered-in Miss Damer's favour?"

"I do."

"That you will not, Captain Clyne, even look at this letter-this letter which I have found and which exonerates her?"

"Never!" Clyne replied harshly. "Never! And, now you know my mind, go, sir, and do not return to this subject! This is no time for trifling, nor am I in the mood."

But the chaplain held his ground, though he was very nervous. And a resolution, great and heroic, took shape within him, growing in a moment to full size-he knew not how. He raised his meagre figure to its full height, and his pale peaky face assumed a dignity which the pulpit had never known. "I, too, am in no mood for trifling, Captain Clyne," he said. "But I do not hold this matter trifling. On the contrary, I wish you to understand that I think it so important that I consider it my duty to press it upon you by every means in my power!"

Clyne looked at him wrathfully, astonished at his presumption. "The girl has turned your head," he said.

The chaplain waived the words aside. "And therefore," he continued, "if you decline, Captain Clyne, to read this letter, or to consider the evidence it contains-"

"That I do absolutely! Absolutely!"

"I beg to resign my office," Mr. Sutton responded, trembling violently. "I will no longer-I will no longer serve one, however much I respect him, or whatever my obligations to him, who refuses to do justice to his own kith and kin, who refuses to stand between a helpless girl and wrong! Vile wrong!" And he made a gesture with his hands as if he laid something on the table.

If his object was to gain possession of Captain Clyne's attention he succeeded. Clyne looked at him with as much surprise as anger.

"She has certainly turned your head," he said in a lower tone, "if you are not playing a sorry jest, that is. What is it to you, man, if I follow my own judgment? What is Miss Damer to you?"

"You offered her to me," with a trembling approach to sarcasm, "for my wife. She is so much to me."

"But I understood that she would not take you," Clyne retorted; and now he spoke wearily. The surprise of the other's defiance was beginning to wear off. "But, there, perhaps I was mistaken, and then your anxiety for her interests is explained."

"Explain it as you please," Mr. Sutton answered with fire, "if you will read this letter and weigh it."

"I will not," Clyne returned, his anger rising anew. "Once for all, I will not!"

"Then I resign the chaplaincy I hold, sir."

"Resign and be d-d!" the naval captain answered. The day had cruelly tried his temper.

"Your words to me," Mr. Sutton retorted furiously, "and your conduct to her are of a piece!" And white with passion, his limbs trembling with excitement, he strode to the door. He halted on the threshold, bowed low, and went out.