Weyman Stanley John
Starvecrow Farm

That figure, however, he could not see. And again he stooped, and inspected the snow beside the gate. No, she had not passed, that was certain; and baffled, and in a most unhappy mood, he raised himself and listened. Above him a squirrel, scared by his approach, was angrily clawing a branch; a robin, drawn by the presence of a man, alighted near him, and hopped nearer. But no rustle of flying skirts, no sound of snapping twigs or falling stones came to him. And, a city man by training, and much at a loss here, he mopped his brow and swore. Every second was precious, and he was losing minutes. He was losing minutes, and learning nothing!

Was she hiding in the wood pending his departure? Or had she doubled back the way she had come, and so escaped, laughing and contemptuous? Or had she passed out by some gate unknown to him? Or climbed the fence? Or was she even now meeting her man in some hiding-place among the hollies, or in some fern-clad retreat out of sight and hearing?

Bishop could not tell. He was wholly at a loss. For a few seconds he entertained the wild notion of beating, the wood for her; but he had not taken a dozen steps before he set it aside, and went back to the gate. Henrietta on the occasion when her bearing had confirmed his suspicions had descended the road to the wood. He would go up the road. And even as he thought of this, and laid his hand on the gate to open it, he heard a footstep coming heavily down the road.

He went to meet the man; a tall, grinning rustic, who bore a sheep on his shoulders with its fore and hind feet in either hand, so that it looked like a gigantic ruff. At a sign from the officer he stopped, but did not lower his burden.

"Meet anybody as you came down the road, my lad?" Bishop asked.

"Noa," the man drawled.

"Where have you come from? Troutbeck?"

"Ay."

"You haven't met a young lady?"

"Noa! Met no soul, master!" the man answered, in the accent not only of Westmoreland, but of truth.

"Not even a pretty girl?"

The man grinned more widely.

"Noa, not nobody," he said.

And he went on down the road, but twice looked back, turning sheep and all, to see what the stranger would be at.

Bishop stood for a few moments pondering the question, and then he followed the man.

"If she is not up the road," he argued, "it is ten to one that she started up the hill to throw us off the scent. And she's slipped down herself towards Calgarth. It's that way, too, she went to meet him at night."

And gradually quickening his steps as the case seemed clearer and his hopes grew stronger he was soon out of sight.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE GOLDEN SHIP

Two minutes after Bishop had passed from sight, Henrietta rose from a dip in the fern; in which she had lain all the time, as snugly hidden, though within eyeshot of him, as a hare in its form. She cast a wary glance round. Then she hastened to the gate, but did not pass through it. She knew too much. She chose a weak place in the fence, scaled it with care, and sprang lightly into the road. She glanced up and down, but no one was in sight, and pleased with her cleverness, she set off at a quick pace up the hill.

The sun lacked an hour of setting. She might count on two hours of daylight, and her spirits rose. As the emerald green of the lower hills shone the brighter for the patches of snow, harbingers of winter, which flecked them, so her spirits rose the higher for troubles overpast or to come. She felt no fear, no despondency, none of the tremours with which she had entered on her night adventure. A gaiety of which she did not ask herself the cause, a heart as light as her feet and as blithe as the black-bird's note, carried her on. She who had awakened that morning in a prison could have sung and caroled as she walked. The beauty of the hills about her, of the lake below her, blue here, there black, filled her with happiness.

And the cause? She did not seek for the cause. Certainly she did not find it. It was enough for the moment that she had been prisoned and was free; and that in an hour, or two hours at most, she would return with the child or with news. And then, the sweet vengeance of laying it in its father's arms! She whom he had insulted, whom he had mishandled, whom he had treated so remorselessly-it would be from her hand that he would receive his treasure, the child whom he had told her that she hated. He would have some cause then to talk of making amends! And need to go about and about before he found a way to be quits with her!

She did not analyse beyond that point the feeling of gaiety and joyous anticipation which possessed her. She would put him in the wrong. She would heap coals of fire on his head. That sufficed. If there welled up within her heart another thought, if since morning she had a feeling and a hope that thrilled her and lent to all the world this smiling guise, she was conscious of the effect, unconscious of the cause. The wrist which Clyne had twisted was still black and blue and tender to the touch. She blushed lest any eye fall on it, or any guess how he had treated her. But-she blushed also, when she was alone, and her own eyes dwelt on it. And dwell on it sometimes they would; for, strange to say, the feeling of shame, if it was shame, was not unpleasant.

She met no one. She reached the gate of Starvecrow Farm, unseen as she believed. But heedful of the old saying, that fields have eyes and woods have ears, she looked carefully round her before she laid her hand on the gate. Then, in a twinkling, she was round the house like a lapwing and tapping at the door.

To her first summons she got no answer. And effacing herself as much as possible, she cast a wary eye over the place. The garden was as ragged and desolate, the house as bald and forbidding, the firs about it as gloomy, as when she had last seen them. But the view over sloping field and green meadow, wooded knoll and shining lake, made up for all. And her only feeling as she tapped again and more loudly was one of impatience. Even the memory of the squalid old man whom she had once seen there did not avail to alarm her in her buoyant mood.

This was well, perhaps. For when she knocked a third time, in alarm lest the person she sought should be gone, and her golden ship with him, it was that very old man who opened the door. And, not unnaturally, it seemed to Henrietta that with its opening a shadow fell across the landscape and blurred the sunshine of the day. The ape-like creature who gaped at her, the cavern-like room behind him, the breath of the close air that came from him, inspired disgust, if not alarm, and checked the girl in the full current of content.

He did not speak. But he moved his toothless gums unpleasantly, and danced up and down in an odd fashion from his knees, without moving his feet. Meanwhile his reddened eyes thrust near to hers gleamed with suspicion. On her side Henrietta was taken aback by his appearance, and for some moments she stared at him in consternation. What could she expect from such a creature?

At length, "I wish to see Walterson," she said; in a low tone-there might be listeners in the house. "Do you understand? Do you understand?" she repeated more loudly.

He set his head, which was bald in patches, on one side; as if to indicate that he was deaf. And with his eyes on hers, he dropped his lower jaw and waited for her to repeat what she had said.

She saw nothing else for it, and she crushed down her repugnance.

"Let me come in," she said. "Do you hear? I want to talk to you. Let me come in."

To remain where she was, talking secrets to a deaf man, was to invite discovery.

He understood her this time, and grudgingly he opened the door a little wider. He stood aside and Henrietta entered. In the act she cast a backward look over her shoulder, and caught through the doorway a last prospect of the hills and the mid-lake and the green islets off Bowness-set like jewels on its gleaming breast-all clear-cut in the brisk winter air. She felt the beauty of the scene, but she did not guess what things were to happen to her before she looked again upon its fellow.

Not that when the door was shut upon her, the room in which she found herself did not something appal her. The fire had been allowed to sink low, and the squalor and the chill, vapid air of the place wrapped her about. But she was naturally fearless, and she cheered herself with the thought that she was stronger than the grinning old man who stood before her. She was sure that if he resorted to violence she could master him. Still, she was in haste. She was anxious to do what she had to do, and escape.

And: "I must see Walterson!" she told him loudly, looking down on him, and instinctively keeping her skirts clear of the unswept floor. "He was here, I know, some days ago," she continued sharply. "Don't say you don't understand, because you do! But fetch him, or tell me where he is. Do you hear?"

The old man moved his jaw to and fro. He grinned senilely.

"He was here, eh?" he drawled.

"Yes, he was here," Henrietta returned, taking a tone of authority with him. "And I must see him."

"Ay?"

"It is to do no harm to him," she explained. "Tell him Miss Damer is here. Miss Damer, do you hear? He will see me, I am sure."

"Ay?" he said again in the same half-vacant tone. "Ay?"

But he did not go beyond that; nor did he make any movement to comply. And she was beginning to think him wholly imbecile when his eyes left hers and fixed themselves on the front of her riding-coat. Then, after a moment's silence, during which she patted the floor with her foot in fierce impatience, he raised his claw-like hand and stretched it slowly towards her throat.

She stepped back, but as much in anger as in fear. Was the man imbecile, or very wicked?

"What do you want?" she asked sharply. "Don't you understand what I have said to you?"

For the moment he seemed to be disconcerted by her movement. He stood in the same place, slowly blinking his weak eyes at her. Then he turned and moved in a slip-shod fashion to the hearth and threw on two or three morsels of touch-wood, causing the fire to leap up and shoot a flickering light into the darker corners of the room. The gleam discovered his dingy bed and dingier curtains, and the shadowy entrance to the staircase in which Henrietta had once seen Walterson. And it showed Henrietta herself, and awakened a spark in her angry eyes.

The old man, still stooping, looked round at her, his chin on his shoulder. And slowly, with an odd crab-like movement, he edged his way back to her. She watched his approach with a growing fear of the gloomy house and the silence and the dark staircase. She began to think he was imbecile, or worse, and that nothing could be got from him. And she was in two minds about retreating-so powerfully do silence and mystery tell on the nerves-when he paused in his advance, and, raising his lean, twitching hand, pointed to her neck.

"Give it me," he whimpered. "Give it me-and I'll see, maybe, where he is."

She frowned.

"What?" she asked. "What do you want?"

"The gold!" he croaked. "The gold! At your neck, lass! That sparkles! Give it me!" opening and shutting his lean fingers. "And I'll-I'll see what I can do."

She carried her fingers to the neck of her gown and touched the tiny gold medal struck to celebrate the birth of the Princess Charlotte, which she wore as a clasp at her throat. And relieved to find that he meant no worse, she smiled. The scarecrow before her was less of an "innocent" than she had judged him. It was so much the better for her purpose.

"I cannot give you this," she said. "But I'll give you its value, if you will bring me to Walterson."

"No, no, give it me," he whimpered, grimacing at her and making feeble clutches in the air. "Give it me!"

"I cannot, I say," she repeated. "It was my mother's, and I cannot part with it. But if," she continued patiently, "you will do what I ask I will give you its value, old man, another day."

"Give now!" he retorted. "Give now!" And leering with childish cunning, "Trust the day and greet the morrow! Groats in pouch ne'er yet brought sorrow! Na, na, Hinkson, old Hinkson trusts nobody. Give it me now, lass! And I-I know what I know." And in a cracked and quavering voice, swaying himself to the measure,

 
"It is an old saying
That few words are best,
And he that says little
Shall live most at rest.
And I by my gossips
Do find it right so,
Therefore I'll spare speech,
But-I know what I know.
 

I know what I know!" he repeated, blinking with doting astuteness,

 
"Therefore I'll spare speech,
But-I know what I know!"
 

Henrietta stared. She would have given him the money, any money in her power. But imprudently prudent, she had brought none with her.

"I can't give it you now," she said. "But I will give it you to-morrow if you will do what I ask. Otherwise I shall go and you will get nothing."

He did not reply, but he began to mumble with his jaws and dance himself up and down from his knees, as at her first entrance; with his monstrous head on one side and his red-lidded eyes peering at her. In the open, in the sunshine, she would not have feared him; she would have thought him only grotesque in his anger. But shut up in this hideous den with him, in this atmosphere of dimly perceived danger, she felt her flesh creep. What if he struck her treacherously, or took her by surprise? She had read of houses where the floors sank under doomed strangers, or the testers of beds came down on them in their sleep. He was capable, she was sure, of anything; even of murdering her for the sake of the two or three guineas' worth of gold which she wore at her neck. Yet she held her ground.

"Do you hear?" she said with spirit. "If you do not tell me, I shall go. And you will get nothing!"

He nodded cunningly.

"Bide a bit!" he said in a different tone. "Sit ye down, lass, sit ye down! Bide a bit, and I'll see."

He slippered his way across the floor to get a stool for her. But when he had lifted the stool from the floor in his shaking hands, she marked with a quick leap of the heart that he had put himself between her and the door, and that, with the possession of the stool, his looks were altered. The heavy block wavered in his grasp and he seemed to pant and stagger under its weight. But there was an ugly light in his eyes as he sidled nearer and nearer to her; a light that meant murder. She was sure that he was going to leap upon her. And she remembered that no one, no one knew where she was, no one had seen her enter the house. She had only her own strength to look to, only her own courage and coolness, if she would escape this creature.

"Put down that stool!" she said.

"Eh?"

"Put down that stool!" she repeated, firmly. And she kept her eyes on him, resisting the fatal temptation to glance at door or window. "Do you hear me? Put down that stool!"

He hesitated, but her glance never wavered. And slowly and unwillingly he obeyed. Shaking as with the palsy, and with his mouth fallen open-so that he looked more imbecile and less human than ever-he relinquished the stool.

She drew a deep breath.

"Now," she said bravely, though she was conscious that the perspiration had broken out on her brow, "tell me at once where he is?"

But the old miser, though his will had yielded to hers, did not answer. He seemed to be shaken by his defeat, and to be at once feeble and furious. Glaring askance at her, he tottered to the settle on the hearth and sat down on it, breathing heavily.

"Curse her! Curse her! Curse her!" he gibbered low, but audibly. And he licked his lips and gnashed his toothless gums at her in impotent rage. "Curse her! Curse her!" The firelight, now rising, now falling, showed him sitting there, mopping and mowing, like some unclean Eastern idol; or, again, masked his revolting ugliness.

The girl thought him horrible, thought it all horrible. She felt for an instant as if she were going to faint. But she had gained the victory, she had mastered him, and she would make one last attempt to attain her object.

"You wicked old man," she said, "you would have hurt me! You wicked monster! But I am stronger, much stronger than you, and I do not fear you. Now I am going unless you tell me at once."

He ceased to gibber to her. He beckoned to her to approach him. But she shook her head. He no longer had the stool, but he might have some weapon hidden under the seat of the settle. She distrusted him.

"No," she said, "I am not coming near you. You are a villainous old man, and I don't trust you."

"Have you no-no money?" he whimpered. "Nothing to give old Hinkson? Poor old Hinkson?" with a feeble movement of his fingers on his knees, as if he drew bed-clothes about him.

"Where is Walterson?" she repeated. "Tell me at once."

"How do I know?" he whined. "I don't know."

"He was here. You do know. Tell me."

He averted his eyes and held out a palsied hand.

"Give!" he answered. "Give!"

But she was relentless.

"Tell me," she rejoined, "or I go, and you get nothing." She was in earnest now, for she began to despair of drawing anything from him, and she saw nothing for it but to go and return another time. "Do you hear?" she continued. "If you do not speak for me, I-I shall go to those who will know how to make you speak."

It was an idle threat; and one which she had no intention of executing. But the rage into which it flung him-no rage is so fierce as that which is mingled with fear-fairly appalled her. "Eh? Eh?" he cried, his voice rising to an inarticulate scream. "Eh? You will, will you?" And he rose to his feet and clawed the air as if, were she within reach, he would have torn her to pieces. "You devil, you witch, you besom! Go!" he cried. "I'll sort you! I'll sort you! I'll fetch one as shall-as shall dumb you!"

There was something so demoniacal in the old dotard's passion, in its very futility, in its very violence, that the girl shrank like Frankenstein before the monster she had aroused. She turned to save herself, for, weak as he was, he seemed to be about to fling himself upon her; and she had no stomach for the contact. But as she turned-with a backward glance at him, and an arm stretched toward the door to make sure of the latch-a shadow cast by a figure passing before the lattice flitted across the floor between them, and a hand rested on the latch.

CHAPTER XXIX
THE DARK MAID

The substance followed the shadow so quickly that Henrietta had not time to consider her position before the latch rose. The door opened, and a girl entered hurriedly. The surprise was common to both, for the newcomer had closed the door behind her before she discerned Henrietta, and then her action was eloquent. She turned the key in the lock, and stood frowning, with her back to the door, and one shoulder advanced as if to defend herself. The other hand remained on the fastening.

"You here?" she muttered.

"Yes," Henrietta replied, returning her look, and speaking with a touch of pride. For the feeling of dislike was instinctive; if Bess's insolent smile had not stamped itself on her memory-on that first morning at the Low Wood, which seemed so very, very long ago-Henrietta had still known that she was in the presence of an enemy. "Are you-his daughter?" she continued.

"Yes," Bess answered. She did not move from the door, and she maintained her attitude, as if the surprise that had arrested her still kept her hand on the key. "Yes," she repeated, "I am. You don't" – with a glance from one to the other-"like him, I see!"

"That is no matter," Henrietta answered with dignity. "I am not here for him, nor to see him; I wish to see-"

"Your lover?"

Henrietta winced, and her face turned scarlet. And now there was no question of the hostility between them. Bess's dark, smiling face was insolence itself.

"What? Wasn't he that?" the gipsy girl continued. "If he was not" – with a coarse look-"what do you want with him?"

Silenced for the moment by the other's taunt, Henrietta now found her voice.

"I wish to see him," she said. "That is enough for you."

"Oh, is it?" Bess replied. She had taken her hand from the key and moved a pace or two into the room, so as to confront her rival at close quarters. "That's my affair! I fancy you will have to tell me a good deal more before you do see him."

"Why?"

"Oh, why?" mimicking her rudely. "Why? Because-"

"What are you to him?"

"What you were!" Bess answered.

Henrietta's face flamed anew. But the insult no longer found her unprepared. She saw that she was in the presence of a woman dangerous and reckless; and one who considered her a rival. On the hearth crouched and gibbered that fearful old man. The door was locked-the action had not been lost on her; and no living being, no one outside that door, knew that she was here.

"You are insolent!" was all she answered.

"But it is true!" Bess said. "Or, if it is not true-"

"It is not true!" with a glance of scorn. She knew even in her innocence that this girl had been more to him.

"Then why do you ask for him?" with derision. "What do you want with him? What right have you to ask for him?"

"I wish to see him," Henrietta answered. She would not, if she could avoid it, let her fears appear. After all, it was daylight, and she was strong and young; a match, she thought, for the other if the old man had not been there. "I wish to see him, that is all, and that is enough," she repeated, firmly.

Bess did not answer at once. Indeed, at this point there came over her a change, as if either the other's courage impressed her, or cooler thoughts suggested a different course of action. Her eyes still brooded malevolently on the other's face, as if she would gladly have spoiled her beauty, and her sharp, white teeth gleamed. But to Henrietta's last words she did not answer. She seemed to be wavering, to be uncertain. And at last,

"Do you mean him fair?" she asked. "That is the question."

"I mean no harm to him."

"Upon your honour?"

"Upon my honour."

"I'd tear you limb from limb if you did!" Bess cried in the old tone of violence. And the look which accompanied the words matched them. But the next moment, "If I could believe you," she said more quietly, "it would be well and good. But-"

"You may believe me. Why should I do him harm?"

Bess bit her nails in doubt; and for the first time since her entrance she turned her eyes from her rival. Perhaps for this reason Henrietta's courage rose. She told herself that she had been foolish to feel fear a few minutes before: that she had allowed herself to be scared by a few rude words, such as women of this class used on the least provocation. And the temptation to drop the matter if she could escape uninjured gave way to a brave determination to do all that was possible. She resolved to be firm, yet prudent; and to persevere. And when the dialogue was resumed the tone on each side was more moderate.

"Well," Bess said, with a grudging air, "perhaps you may not wish to do him harm. I don't know, my lass. But you may do it, all the same."

"How?"

"If you think he is here you are mistaken."

Henrietta had already come to this conclusion.

"Still," she said, "I can go to him."

"I don't see how you are to go to him."

"I will go anywhere."

"Ay," with contempt. "And so will a many more at your heels."

"No one saw me come here," Henrietta said.

"No. But it will be odd if no one sees you leave here. I met Bishop as I came, and another with him, hot-foot after you, both, and raising the country as fast as they could."

Henrietta frowned. She gazed through the window. Then she looked again at Bess.

"Is he far from here?" she asked.

"That's telling, and I'm not going to tell. Far or near, I don't see how you are to go to him, unless-" She broke off, paused a moment, and then, as if she put away a thought that had occurred to her, "No," she said with decision, "I see no way. There is no way."

To Henrietta, the girl, the situation, the surroundings, and not least her own rôle, were odious. Merely to negotiate with such an one as this was a humiliation; but to endure her open scorn, to feel her cheeks burn under the fire of her taunts, was hateful. Yet failure in the enterprise from which she had let herself expect so much was still worse-still worse; and the prospect of it overcame her pride. She could not accept the defeat of all her hopes and expectations. She could not.

"You said 'unless,'" she retorted.

Bess laughed.

"Ay, but it's an 'unless,'" she answered contemptuously, "that you are not the one to fill up."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say," Bess answered impudently. And vaulting sideways on the table, she sat swinging her feet, and eyeing the other with a triumphant smile.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you like to stay here until it is dark, – ay, dark, my pretty peacock; and that won't be for an hour or more. Then you may go to him safely. Not before! But you fine ladies," with a look that took in Henrietta, from her high-piled hair and flushed face to the hem of her skirt, "are afraid of your shadows, I'm told."

"I am not afraid of my shadow," Henrietta answered.

"You're afraid of the dark, or why didn't you come when he asked you? And when you could have helped him? Why did you not come then and say what you chose to him?"

"I did come," Henrietta answered coldly. "It was he who failed to meet me."

"That's a nice flim-flam!" Bess rejoined, with incredulity. "You're not one to venture yourself out after moonrise, I'll be bound. And so I told him! But any way," sliding to her feet, and speaking with decision, "he's not here, and you can't see him! And to tell the truth, I'd as lief have your room as your company, that being so."

She turned to the door as if to open it. But Henrietta did not move. She was deep in thought. The sneering words, the dark handsome face, filled her with distrust; and with something like loathing of herself when she reflected that the man she sought had been this girl's lover. But they also aroused her spirit. They spurred her to the step which the other dared her to take. Was she to show herself as a timid thing, as poor a creature as this gipsy girl deemed her? She had come hither with her heart set upon a prize; was she to relinquish that prize because its pursuit demanded an ordinary amount of courage-such courage as this village girl possessed and made naught of?

And yet-and yet she hesitated. She was not afraid of the girl; she was not afraid-she told herself-of the man who had once professed to be her lover: but there might be others, and it would be dark. If the boy were there, there would be others. And she was not sure that she was-not afraid. For the old man by the fireside, with his squalid clothes and his horrible greediness, made her flesh creep. She hesitated, until Bess, with a sneer, bade her to go if she was going.

"I'd as soon see your back," she continued, "and ha' done with it. I know your sort! All fine feathers and as much spunk as a mouse!"

Henrietta made up her mind. She sat down on the nearest stool.

"I shall remain," she said, "and go with you to see him."

"Not you! So what's the use of talking?"

"I shall go," Henrietta replied firmly. "It will be dark in an hour. I will remain and go with you."

Bess shrugged her shoulders and answered nothing. But had Henrietta caught sight of her smile, she had certainly changed her mind.

Even without that, and unwarned, the girl found, as they sat there in silence, and the minutes passed and the light faded, much ground for hesitation. The words which Clyne had used when he forbade her to risk herself, the terms in which he had described the desperate plight of the men whom she must beard, the fears that had assailed her when she had gone after dark to meet a peril less serious-all these things recurred to her memory, and scared her. By pressing her lips together she maintained a show of unconcern; but only because the dusk hid her loss of colour. She repented-gravely; but she had not the courage to draw back. She shrank from meeting-as she must meet, if she rose to go-the other's smile of triumph; she shrank from the sense of humiliation under which she would smart after she had escaped. She had cast the die and must dare. She must see the enterprise through. And she sat on. But she was sure that she could hardly suffer anything worse than she suffered during those minutes, while her fate still lay in her hands, while the power to withdraw was still hers, and indecision plucked at her. The man who fights with his back to the wall suffers less than when, before he drew his blade, imagination dealt him a score of deaths.

The old man continued to grumble over the fire; and seldom, but sometimes, he laid his chin on his shoulder and looked back at her. Bess, on the contrary, gazed at her as the cat at the mouse; but with her back to the light and her own face in shadow, so that whatever thoughts or passions clouded her dark eyes, they passed unseen. Presently, as the light failed, Bess's head became no more than a dark knob breaking the lower line of dusty panes; while through the upper a patch of pale green sky, promising frost, held Henrietta's eyes and raised a still but solemn voice amid the tumult of her thoughts. That morsel of sky was the only clean, pure thing within sight, and it faded quickly, and became first grey and then a blur of darkness. By that time the room, with its close, fetid odours and its hints at gruesome secrets, had sunk into the blackness of night.

The fire gave out a dull glow, but it went no farther than the hearth. Yet presently it was the cause of an illusion, if illusion it was, which gave Henrietta a shock. Turning her eyes from the window-it seemed to her that longer waiting would break her down-she saw the outline of the old miser's figure, but erect and much closer to her than before-and, unless she was mistaken, with hands outstretched as if to clutch her neck. She uttered a low cry, and rose, and stepped back. On the instant he vanished. But whether he sank down, or retreated, or had never stirred, she could not be sure; while her cry found an echo in Bess's mischievous laughter.